


Like Father, Like Son

by BigBlkDog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Caring Greg Lestrade, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, Paternal Greg Lestrade, References to Drugs, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 79,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBlkDog/pseuds/BigBlkDog
Summary: AU; A 15-year-old Sherlock is outcast by his parents once his drug use has come to a final blow-up. After fleeing to London, fate (murder) intervenes, and Sherlock becomes a part of the life of one, Sergeant Greg Lestrade. Together the two learn that sometimes family isn't just blood. TeenLock. If PapaLestrade is your thing - this is your story. Updates in progress.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 43
Kudos: 186





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this little monster has been stuck in my head, and I finally decided to unleash it. It is finally complete, but I am updating some previous chapters. This first part is mostly Greg and Sherlock centered. I am currently working on Part 2 that will have a lot more John. Just as a warning the first several chapters does deal with Sherlock's drug use.
> 
> Also, I don't own Sherlock. I just want to play with the characters a bit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.
> 
> A/N 2: Nov 8, 2020, updated. Special thanks to Hucklebarry for helping go through the first half of the story to get it up to par with the rest.

**Prologue**

He'd been silent for three months. Three months since Sherlock… Well, let's just say he'd been silent for three months too long. He watched the commotion of the room with an odd feeling of calmness. He'd probably get his rank busted down again after this interview, but he didn't care anymore.

"Listen up," a mysterious voice from just beyond the bright studio lights brought his attention back to the present. "We're back on the air in three, two," he finished with a whispered _one_ before pointing to one of the reporters from BBC One. She had been an active follower of Sherlock's recent career after John's blog had a large part in making the consulting detective famous.

Greg panicked for a moment, unable to remember her name. He nervously bounced his leg and flexed his recently healed hand, using the pain he was feeling to help him focus on getting through the next five minutes.

The journalist, with her long coiffed hair, turned to look directly into the camera.

"For those just joining us, we are sitting down with the father of Sherlock Holmes, the infamous detective that tragically committed suicide three months ago, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," she finished with a grim face before angling her face back to him.

Greg sat awkwardly in an uncomfortable chair, trying not to squint too much as the bright light blinded his eyes, and nodded to the camera with his own sad smile. God, why could he not remember her name?

"So, Inspector Lestrade," the reporter restarted the interview, but Greg held up a hand to interrupt her from going any further.

"Sorry," he apologized for throwing her off, "it's actually Sergeant now. Just to set the record straight," he finished awkwardly.

She gave him an understanding nod, but Greg saw the eagerness in her eyes to dig for more answers. The reporter had tried to provide him with a list of questions and topics for him to approve prior to the interview, and stupidly, Greg hadn't cared at the time. Still, three months out, he found it difficult to care about much. Hopefully, he wouldn't regret that decision.

"Oh, sorry, Sergeant Lestrade," the interviewer jumped back in without missing a beat. "So, let's jump back into the interview there. You took a demotion," she stated, continuing after Greg's nod. "Was that because of the events that happened with Sherlock?"

"Uh, yeah," he answered hesitantly. "Sherlock wasn't exactly on the force," he rubbed the back of his neck with his uninjured hand. "I had been using him as a consultant for certain cases with the Yard."

The interviewer tilted her head curiously, "And what exactly qualified him as a consultant?"

 _Dull_ , Sherlock's voice rang clear in his head, and Greg had to stifle an eye-roll on camera. These types of questions were repetitive. If they had bothered to spend five minutes or less with the kid, they would have seen that brilliance, too. Instead, all they had was John's blog, the smattering of articles from various papers, and the tragic media circus that happened before and after his suicide.

"Sherlock was a graduate chemist, for God's sake," Greg informed her with a shake of his head. "Not that anyone bothered to report on his accommodations and accolades until it was too late," he dug his heels in the floor and felt validated when the reporter's face fell slightly.

"He was smart," he carried on, shaking his head, thinking back over the last twenty years he had with the kid. "Sherlock always had this way of seeing the truth of it all," he tried to explain. "Even as a teenager, which was when I first met him. He just…" Greg paused, looking for the right words, but failing. Sadness and anger began to make their presence known again, not that those emotions had ever really left at any point over the last three months. He just needed to make sure he had a good reign over them before he made himself look like an idiot on national television.

"So, to answer your question, he was smart," Greg restarted, trying to focus on the task at hand. "I had tried to get him to join the Yard in the forensics department for years, but he always turned me down. Besides, it's not like I was calling him in on every case," he tried to explain. "Nine times out of ten, a murder case is fairly cut and dry. It's just those rare cases that have a certain flair or particular twist that I thought would be up his alley; the ones that were more difficult to solve."

He had been perfectly capable of solving cases on his own, despite Sherlock's teasing. Sometimes, it was just too tempting to work side by side with his brilliant son.

"We don't have much time left," the interviewer brought his focus back to her, "but I want to go back to the beginning. The world knows Sherlock Holmes as your son; however, that isn't strictly speaking the case - "

Greg scoffed, apparently interrupting the reporter from finishing her question. Try taking care of the kid for twenty years after his own family had disowned him.

"That's exactly the case," Greg bit out and pointed to the woman in front of him. "No, he wasn't biologically speaking mine, but in all the ways that matter… _in here_ ," Greg paused to point where his heart ached in his chest. "Sherlock Holmes is, and will always be _my son_ ," Greg had to take a break to let in a calming breath before he was able to continue on.

"I know what everyone is saying about him," he angrily shook his head, thinking back to everything that had happened over the last few months. "I know some of the things that happened don't make sense. But Sherlock, _my son_ , didn't make this up. Jim Moriarty is a very real person," he paused to look from the reporter to the camera, "and I won't stop until I clear Sherlock's name."

The interviewer nodded and turned back towards the camera, herself, "Well, you heard it here first. Thank you for joining us, Sergeant. We wish you good luck with your future endeavors," she told him, reaching a hand across the vacant space between them.

Greg nodded and shook the interviewer's hand.

"And we're clear," the anonymous voice from earlier said. Like magic, the harsh studio lighting shut off, letting the much easier standard lighting take over.

Greg stood up from the uncomfortable studio chair and unclipped his microphone from his shirt and belt before passing it off to the nearest stranger.

"Well, thank you again," the nameless reporter came closer to him after removing her own microphone set. "Can I ask?" she hesitated momentarily before continuing. "What made you finally come on? I've been trying to get you on since - well, for about three months now."

"I wish I had a good answer for you," Greg told her honestly, running a hand across the back of his neck again. "But I've lost my son and I've gotten demoted. I guess you can say I don't have much left. But I can tell you one thing," Greg told her, squaring off his shoulders, feeling slightly more confident.

"What's that?" she asked him with a sincere, open expression.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

.

.

.

_20 Years Earlier_

Sherlock drummed his fingers, getting increasingly agitated every second the prolonged silence drug on in the large, overly done 'family room'. Sherlock laughed at the colloquial expression. He sat in an uncomfortable, exceedingly ornate settee at a distance across from his parents that was just outside what a typical family would consider comfortable. He supposed that he shouldn't be overly surprised by his parents' bombshell revelation. However, it was generally frowned upon to cast out children, for a family of their status, before they reached the age of eighteen.

"So, that's it?" Sherlock was unable to continue sitting in silence. There had to be some deceitful gimmick lurking in their deck that they were just waiting to unveil at the last minute. Surely, they weren't seriously considering disowning him.

The two stone-faced, expressionless faces that were across from him told a different story. Not one tear, not one raised voice—typical of his parents.

"So, you find it perfectly acceptable to cast your fifteen-year-old son out on the streets?" Sherlock prodded them once more for answers.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock," his mother started with an exasperated sigh. "Somehow, the son you speak of has managed to become a drug addict and drop out of school," she shook her head at him in disgust. "There is no more innocence for you to hide behind," there was no waiver in her voice. Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing.

The sinking suspicion that his parents were finally serious began to slowly spread through his veins like the ice water that ran through the creek in their estate, causing Sherlock to shiver slightly. He appeared to have miscalculated his parent's apathy for his general existence. He wasn't the exalted Mycroft, so why bother with Sherlock. Typical, but still not the outcome he had anticipated.

"It's not as if we haven't tried to help you, Son," his father chimed in after having remained silent and impassive throughout this ordeal. "The sheer amount of money we've spent alone on this whole ordeal should speak for itself. We've sent you to rehab, which you somehow managed to get kicked out of, not once, but twice. Changed your boarding schools, and when you'd gotten kicked out of those, we brought you back home and attempted to homeschool you," leave it to his father to boil everything down to the amount of money he had spent as some kind of leverage. "You couldn't even tolerate homeschooling. You made the most sought after tutor in all of the UK flee in tears. We simply don't know what else to do," his father conceded.

"Have you considered not casting me out into the streets like a common street rat?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

His parents turned to look at each other, apparently having some type of wordless, emotionless, telepathic conversation before turning their impassive faces back towards Sherlock.

"You'll be cut off from your trust fund, naturally," his father's condescending voice responded as if Sherlock had actually thought he had a chance of touching the trust fund. "We aren't unreasonable though, so access can and will be restored if you can prove that you can be a stable, responsible adult," his father continued, sounding as if he was Father Christmas himself.

Bringing the trust fund into it then, Sherlock frowned. It would appear as if they were serious, although Sherlock couldn't help but think that this arrangement was likely for the best. He never had any type of meaningful relationship with his parents. Mycroft was the closest thing he had to one (and that in and of itself was concerning), but he was currently away at school.

Sherlock started running through a checklist in his mind. It was March, so still cold, but Winter was abruptly coming to an end. He had a small amount of money he had pocketed away that he would have to make work. Pack lightly; get out of the countryside and take the first train to London he could find. It would be much easier to hide himself away in the larger city.

"So, that's it?" he asked one final time after it appeared his parents had said their fill.

"That's it," his mother responded with a firm nod.

"Mycroft?" he asked, trying to downplay his curiosity over his older brother's thoughts on this arrangement.

His mother scoffed, "What about Mycroft?" she asked him with an impressive rise of her eyebrow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the response, "I assume you've explained to him the exile of your youngest?" he looked between his parents for answers.

His mother sneered while his father kept the emotionless mask he called a face firmly in place.

"Mycroft is aware of the situation," his mother informed him. "Your brother is almost finished with his graduate studies and is in a position to become someone. He doesn't need his drug-addicted brother to bring him down," she finished scornfully.

Sherlock nodded, and for the first time, felt the need to tamp down tears. He couldn't let his parents see his weakness. It would be useless to try to change their minds.

Abruptly, he stood up from his spot on the settee, not bothering to look back at his parents. Taking large, quick steps, he made his way through the large house towards the room he had grown up in and closed the door behind him. He gave himself a moment to take one last look around the cluttered space that had been his for the previous fifteen years, his safe haven from the horrors out of the home and inside it, as well. With a determined nod, he grabbed his backpack and emptied the contents on the floor. He packed a handful of necessary clothes and other items he deemed essential. Next, he moved to the bed and lifted the mattress to grab the envelope of cash he had kept hidden. It wouldn't last him long, but it would be enough to get to London and feed him for a short time. After that, he would need to figure out something else.

He was about to exit his bedroom through the window when a picture that had been on his nightstand grabbed his attention. The nanny his parents had hired at the time had taken it and had a copy framed for each of the brothers. It was when he had been much younger and had received his first chemistry set. Mycroft stood next to him, explaining the various pieces that had come with it. Both of their backs were turned to the camera, but Sherlock's head was tilted close to Mycroft, eagerly soaking in the lesson from his older brother. With a frown, he slammed the picture face-down on the nightstand before finally slipping out of the window.

He was well and truly on his own now.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking the time to read! We begin our story with a chance meeting in a park.  
> A/N: Updated 11/14/20.

**Chapter 1**

"Right, that's three coffees. Two black and one iced?" the barista verified.

"Yes, thank you," Greg Lestrade thanked the lady at the small coffee kiosk. While there was a slightly closer coffee cart to New Scotland Yard, this one had infinitely better coffee. And better coffee would hopefully mean a better day. Greg would take any chance he could to not only brighten his own day but his boss's day as well. If that meant that walking a bit further was the answer to the attitude problem of his heinous Detective Inspector, then so be it.

Detective Inspector Sandra Littleton was as no-nonsense as they came. Unfortunately, it appeared that the DI only considered him good for paperwork and coffee runs. Hopefully, it would only be a brief moment in his career, but it was one that he was ready to have behind him.

Greg tried not to focus on the negative. It was a beautiful May Spring day. People were out and happy that Summer was just around the corner. He had to admit that seeing everything in bloom brought a spring to his step. Despite the looming afternoon of paperwork, Greg still found himself in a good mood. Maybe he would surprise his wife with dinner reservations to one of her favorite restaurants.

While he waited off to the side of the coffee cart, he was cut off from his thoughts of wooing his wife by his phone. He sighed and fished it out of his trouser pocket.

"Lestrade," he answered in his most business-like voice, recognizing the number as one of the dispatch numbers.

"Sergeant," the voice of one of the dispatchers greeted. "There's been a murder victim found. St. James Park. Littleton has already been notified and will be on her way shortly."

"Right, thanks. I'm close. I'll head over," he replied before ending the call.

So much for the morning to get caught up on his paperwork, he sulked. Greg pocketed his phone and headed back to the coffee kiosk to grab his order, leaving a tip in the jar before turning to leave. It was only a short walk to the park from where he was at. With any luck, he'd be able to get a jump on the case before Littleton got there.

Greg found his mind wandering back to his wife during his walk towards the crime scene. He had never pictured being in such an uncertain place with his wife, Hannah. Things had unfortunately been tense between the two of them as of late and he found it difficult not to stress over their current situation too much. While a fancy dinner here and there wouldn't fix all of their problems, it would be a nice distraction and possibly allow them to just try and be an actual couple again. Couples' counseling was, unfortunately, not having its expected effect. While they had seemed to have moved past Hannah's infidelity, they continued to hit hurdle after hurdle. It was beginning to wear on him. This was part of the reason why Greg hoped to rekindle some of their spark, something to bring life back into their relationship.

Those thoughts would have to be pushed aside for the time being. Greg needed to get back into the professional mindset as he approached the crime scene. Several police officers could be seen from his position standing around the roped-off area, and it appeared that forensics had already started processing the evidence.

"Report," he barked once he got closer to the tape.

The officer in charge came over and began to give him a rundown of the facts they had been able to gather. She explained that they had gotten the call not too long ago. Some kid had discovered the body early this morning. The victim had been partially submerged in the small pond when said kid had stumbled across him. The victim was a thirty-two-year-old male. He was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head, with no sight of the weapon as of yet.

Greg nodded at the officer's report while he did his own personal inspection of the victim.

"Oh, I almost forgot, Officer Donovan," he started before providing her with a cup of black coffee. "A thank you for helping me out with that case from a couple of weeks ago," he nodded to her with a raise of his coffee cup. "You've got a real knack for this."

"Thank you, Sir. I appreciate that," she smiled and raised her cup to him before taking a small sip. "Anyway, the kid that found him is still here. I had a hard time getting him to leave, but I finally managed to get him out of the way a bit. He's by the bench over there," Sally Donovan pointed with her free hand to a lone park bench in front of a small grouping of trees. "I'm not sure he has anywhere to go if you get my drift. He probably came around to take a kip and found himself more than he bargained for," she finished with a frown.

Greg tutted. He hated it when he came across homeless youth out on the street. Unfortunately, it happened more often than most people cared to realize. Most of the time, they were too scared of cops to be close to one, let alone talk to one. Still, after he got a chance to look at the scene with his own eyes, he'd try and talk to the kid if the teen hadn't fled by then.

Without missing a beat, Greg went to talk to the forensics team to get a better idea of the situation to be as up to speed as possible before DI Littleton arrived. He kept throwing quick glances in the teenager's direction to make sure that he hadn't gotten spooked and taken off. Surprisingly, it seemed that he maintained a captivated eye on the crime scene in front of him. The kid was obviously fascinated with everything going on, and Greg had almost decided to go talk to him when Littleton finally arrived on the scene.

Greg stumbled to catch up with the Inspector's fast-paced walk before passing off her favorite iced coffee to her (with no thanks in return). He quickly relayed what information he had already gotten from Officer Donovan and included the new information he had obtained from the forensics team since he arrived on the scene; the water around the body damaged a lot of the evidence, and they were still trying to recover what they could.

"We're in the process of notifying the next of kin now, Inspector," Greg finished his report, flipping his notebook closed. "The victim still had his wallet with cash and credit cards on him, so it's not likely to be a robbery gone wrong."

Inspector Littleton was already a little taller than the average woman, but she clocked in at just an inch above Greg in her power heels. She was in her forties, with a very athletic physique and sandy blonde hair that was naturally very tightly curled, which she usually kept pinned back out of her face. The Inspector's attitude was one that was always ready for business, and her general facial expressions let you know that she was the no-nonsense variety before you even spoke with her.

"Very well," she gave a clipped answer. "Schedule a time for us to go and interview the family as soon as they've been notified," she nodded before turning back to the crime scene. "I'm going to go talk to forensics and make sure they can have some information ready by the afternoon," she informed him before marching off to the head of the forensics team that was currently standing next to the victim, wearing a pair of wellies in the shallow water feature.

Greg watched her go, letting a relieved breath out once his superior officer was out of earshot.

"She's the friendly sort, isn't she?" Officer Donovan asked after suddenly reappearing at his shoulder.

"Always," Greg snorted. "Make sure the onlookers don't get too close and let me know if you start to see any reporters try and sneak this way. I'm going to take a statement from the kid that found him. I'll be back in a tick," he nodded before taking off to the nearby bench that was nestled in the clearing of blossoming trees.

The kid in question had been observing the team do their job as they worked to gather evidence on the victim. Once Greg made his way closer, he noticed the boy's gaze move to focus more intently on him.

Now that Greg was closer, he was able to take in the picture in front of him. A tattered backpack that had seen better days had been carelessly tossed on the bench next to its owner. The kid was skinny, too skinny. That being said, the kid gave the appearance that he had just gone through a growth spurt, making his slender form even more apparent. Still, he was several centimeters shorter than himself, but Greg doubted that would last long. The dark mop of curls on top of his head stood out against his pallid face. However, it was the eyes that made Greg's stomach clench in sympathy for the kid in front of him. They were such a unique pale blue color, emphasized by the red bloodshot sclera. Large black smudges highlighted the fact that they were slightly sunken in orbs that stared back at him.

Greg started piecing together some guesses. The kid had been on the streets for a stretch. By the look of the kid's eyes alone, he suspected drugs but dearly hoped he was wrong, that it was just a fundamental lack of sleep and a decent meal.

Greg tried to give the kid his most unassuming smile, "Sergeant Greg Lestrade," he introduced himself, offering his hand to the younger man.

The kid's eyes flicked back and forth from Greg's face to his outstretched hand and Greg was beginning to doubt that he would talk to him. Finally, after a couple of moments of, apparently, careful deliberation, the teenager returned his handshake.

"Sherlock," the kid answered hesitantly. He still appeared to be carefully inspecting Greg for any signs that potentially labeled the Sergeant as a threat, so Greg tried to remain as relaxed as possible.

Greg noticed that the kid, Sherlock, had a proper grip when he returned the handshake, so he was not entirely terrified by adults.

"Sherlock, nice to meet you," Greg replied before dropping the kid's hand. "This whole thing must be a little bit of a shock, finding a body like this," he tossed his head back in the general direction of the crime scene.

Sherlock shrugged and seemed to give Greg one last once over before trying to peer over his shoulder to go back to viewing the scene behind him.

When it was evident that the kid would continue to ignore him, Greg tried to get him to open up again.

"Still, stumbling on a dead body is a lot for anyone to take in, more or less someone your age. How old are you, by the way?" Greg asked curiously while taking out his notebook from the breast pocket of his button-down shirt.

The kid, Sherlock, turned his gaze from the crime scene to look back at him, "Why is my age relevant to your investigation?" he asked, the kid now giving his full attention towards Greg.

Greg shrugged, "Well, it's not entirely relevant, I suppose. It's more for just my own personal curiosity," he answered truthfully.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and flicked them in different directions over Greg's body. The effect was making Greg feel slightly uncomfortable being under such intense scrutiny from the kid.

"Fifteen," Sherlock answered after nearly a minute of strained silence.

Greg felt his insides soften at the admission. He couldn't blame the lad for being skeptical of adults, especially one that was a cop.

"Well, um, Sherlock," Greg started, bringing a pen up to his notebook. "Why don't you tell me how you found the victim for my official report?"

"I came through St. James Park at approximately seven o'clock this morning. I intended to sit on one of the benches closer to the water, which is how I discovered the deceased. I then proceeded to make the phone call to report the victim on that payphone over there," Sherlock paused to point at the payphone that was closest to the main road before continuing. "And then I waited in close proximity until," there was a moment of hesitation while Sherlock let his gaze fall towards the officers processing the scene, " _London's finest_ arrived," he filled in with an eye-roll and sarcastic tone. "The Officer directed me to wait over here," he finished, leaving Greg with the impression that the kid was somewhat of an elitist.

Oh, so he thought he was a funny boy, did he? Greg nodded along to the kid's story, jotting a couple of notes into his book before pocketing it. The well-spoken teenager still surprised him, despite the subtle rib at the Yard's expense. Under all of that, there was still a posh accent with a strong grasp of the English language. The puzzle pieces weren't adding up for Greg.

"Did you touch the body at all?" Greg asked, suddenly concerned that he had disturbed the evidence.

Sherlock shook his head in the negative, "I merely observed from the bridge above," he confirmed, nodding towards the bridge in question. "It was obvious from the hole in his head that he was dead. Judging by the discoloration of his fingertips, I would say he had been dead for approximately two hours prior to my discovery of him."

"Right," Greg tapered off slowly, not expecting that type of answer. "So, just to be clear, you're saying the time of death is around five this morning?" Greg asked, still struggling to wrap his mind around the intelligent answer.

Sherlock simply nodded.

Greg raised a curious eyebrow, "And that is your entirely professional opinion?" he questioned the obviously smart teenager, letting his own sarcasm come through.

Sherlock's face remained stoic, clearly not amused by Greg's attempts at humor.

"This sort of thing interests you, doesn't it?" Greg asked, genuinely curious.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the Sergeant before answering, "It is something that is of interest to me, yes."

"Well, good for you," Greg nodded happily at the boy. "If you keep at it and finish school, maybe you'll be a detective someday," he finished with a smile.

The rapid change in the kid's features made Greg's smile falter.

"What?" Greg asked him, curious as to why that seemed to trouble Sherlock.

"That's not…" Sherlock tapered off with a frown. "That's not what people normally say when they find out about my interest in the macabre," he finished quietly.

"What do they normally say?" Greg asked him, floored that other people had been so dismissive of the teen's insights.

"Freak."

Greg frowned at the answer. Kids were harsh. Hell, adults could be cruel. He couldn't wrap his mind around why someone would put this brilliant kid down.

"Well, don't listen to them, Sherlock," he told the kid sincerely. "Look," he paused for a moment to pull his wallet out, "here's my card. If you need anything, just give me a ring. And I mean anything. I have connections with places that help at-risk youth," he pointed to the kid's ratted backpack on the bench. "It was nice to meet you," he finished and stuck his hand out, happy that there was no hesitation before it was met with another firm shake.

He gave one last nod in Sherlock's direction before turning to head back to the crime scene. He hoped the kid would take him up on his offer. He just wished that the boy's luck would change soon. Life on the streets was no place for a smart kid like him. At the very least, Greg would make a report of him to child services. With any luck, they could follow up with the kid and help Sherlock more than Greg could.

"You should try looking for his string of secret lovers."

Greg stopped in his tracks. That was an oddly specific suggestion, he thought to himself. He slowly turned back to stare at Sherlock who was still hovering by the park bench. He looked mildly concerned that he had said something wrong.

"Excuse me?" Greg asked him, making his way to close the short distance back to the kid.

Sherlock took a deep breath before explaining, "He's been having an affair with a string of lovers for quite some time. All male, and possibly prostitutes," he started, growing more and more confident with each passing word. "With the most recent one having grown an unhealthy attachment to the victim, and was not okay with getting cast to the side."

Greg stood where he was, staring dumbfounded at the teenager before him. "Did you know the victim?" he asked, beginning to wonder if the kid hadn't been exactly truthful about his statement.

Sherlock shook his head in the negative.

"Then how could you possibly know all of that?" Greg asked him, not comprehending how Sherlock had been able to make those conclusions.

Sherlock merely shrugged his shoulders, "I observed it."

Greg looked on skeptically at the kid but was interrupted by officer Donovan's voice calling to him from the scene below.

"Lestrade!"

Greg turned back towards her voice and saw Officer Donovan waving for him to come back over. He waved in acknowledgment and turned his attention to the lanky teen.

He gave the kid a scrutinizing gaze before speaking again, "Meet me back at this bench at seven tonight," Greg instructed, pointing to the said park bench.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, confused and suddenly on guard.

Greg smiled at him. "Don't you want to know if you were right or not?" he finished with a smirk that seemed to throw the kid off. And with that, he turned to head back to the crime scene, leaving a very stunned Sherlock in his wake.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love left on the first couple of chapters. We get to switch back to Sherlock's perspective for this chapter.  
> Updated 11/30/20

**Chapter 2**

This was ridiculous, Sherlock thought, throwing a glare at the park bench where his backpack was resting. There were several things that he had needed to get done today, and he let them all fall to the side. He was low on cash and food for himself, and he still hadn't figured out where he would sleep tonight. These were things that could no longer be put off. Yet, what did he do? He stayed on the damn park bench like he had been told by the police Sergeant all day. Sherlock's glare darkened at the mental picture of himself that had formed in his mind. It was as if he were some type of desperate, pining child. It was ridiculous. Pathetic even.

He had paced the small area in front of the bench that had become _his_ bench for the entire day. From sun up to sun down, he stayed, watching the progression of the crime scene throughout the day until the park had opened back up. He had watched as the police Sergeant had gone back down to the other investigative team members. The other man had even looked back to give him a friendly wave before leaving. Shortly after Sergeant Lestrade had left, the morgue had collected the deceased man's body, followed by the tape sectioning off the crime scene being taken down, opening the park back up. By the time the five o'clock hour hit and people were getting off of their boring jobs, the park was full of people out enjoying the weather with no idea of the crime that had happened.

So there he waited. All. Day.

Sherlock frowned at his watch. It was already half-past seven and there had been no sign of the Sergeant he had met earlier, Lestrade. Why would he have kept his word and come back anyway? Especially for Sherlock, some random teenager, no less. If the other man had even an ounce of detective skills, he more than likely had already discovered the murderer by now and Sherlock would just be another forgotten witness.

He stopped worrying. He didn't have any more time to waste on the early-graying policeman. Grabbing his backpack, he rooted through the bag until he found the worn copy of _Anna Karenina_ in the original Russian translation. The inside of the classic Russian novel had been carved out and used to hide cash and other illicit substances. Sherlock counted the money currently tucked away in the book, feeling a small amount of apprehension flicker to life in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have enough to go back to Volkov, the Russian drug lord he had crossed paths with shortly after running away to London. He had come across the powerful man quite by accident. The man seemed to appreciate Sherlock's ability to see through people and had taken him in immediately. Volkov was unflinching and notorious. Sherlock's lack of progress made today would not go unnoticed by the man. He would need to make up today's work and then some to avoid any type of punishment.

A voice from a distance startled him, "Sherlock!" He slammed the hollowed-out book closed and spun around. It was the police Sergeant from earlier. Had he come back? For Sherlock?

"Sorry, Kid," the man apologized as he grew closer. "I'm glad you stuck around, though. I'm starved," Sherlock frowned at the adult. He was glad to see Sherlock? "So, what are you in the mood for? I was thinking of fish and chips, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, returning the book to his bag as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Sergeant Lestrade had come back for him. He looked back up and stared skeptically at the adult who was waiting for him with an open, happy expression.

"Come on," the man motioned for Sherlock to follow him.

This meeting could be a mistake. It was an improbable scenario that had a few potential outcomes. He was just having a hard time visualizing any of those being outcomes in his favor. Still, Sherlock wanted, no, needed to know he was right. Which he was. The deceased man's infidelity could be read in his hands and the lovers he'd chosen by his hair. How no one else had been able to see that was beyond him. He supposed there was only one answer, then.

The two walked in silence through the streets of London. Sherlock kept giving curious looks to the man next to him. Why had the man returned? Was it possible that he had been made as an associate of Volkov's? The man, Lestrade, couldn't be older than thirty-five with tanned skin and dark hair that had begun to salt and pepper on the sides already. He was younger, yet bordering on old for a Sergeant.

"Anyone home?" Lestrade's voice brought him back to the present. Sherlock had been too deep in his analytical thoughts of the Sergeant walking next to him that he had realized too late that he had been asked a question from the man. "I asked how long you've been out on the streets for?"

"What makes you think I live on the streets?" he replied, doing his best to feel put out by the suggestion. "Maybe I'm just a deviant that prowls the streets looking for my next victim," Sherlock let just a touch of sarcasm drip from his voice.

The Sergeant shot him a smile, "Oh, I do not doubt that you're a deviant."

They came to a stop with Sherlock having difficulty coming up with the appropriate response. He had not been exposed to such camaraderie from other adults in the past. Before he had a chance to respond, though, the smell of grease and chips hit his nostrils, causing his stomach to let out an uncontrollable growl.

Lestrade let out a chuckle, "Come on, Kid. Let's get some food in you, shall we?" he instructed with a clap to the shoulder that directed Sherlock into the small cafe they had stumbled upon.

After Lestrade had ordered them each a fresh basket of fish and chips with a couple of water glasses, they picked a table towards the restaurant's front picture window.

Sherlock picked at his fries, giving the Sergeant curious looks as he waited to see how the evening would play out.

"So," Lestrade started, drumming his fingers on the table. Sherlock prepared himself for whatever was about to come out of the Sergeant's mouth. "I guess you want to know how your case turned out?"

Sherlock felt his eyelids blink rapidly as he processed what he was hearing.

"My- my case?" he stuttered.

"Yeah," Lestrade smiled at him, and the man's friendliness threw Sherlock. "If it hadn't been for your insights, it would have taken us days, maybe even weeks, to find the link," he finished, smiling wider. Typically, Sherlock would have found the man's attempts at being charming highly obnoxious. Still, when the Sergeant plunged excitedly into the story of how he had caught the murderer, Sherlock found it difficult to keep from smiling.

Apparently, the deceased hid everything well. The wife had been clueless about the string of secret lovers he had during their time together. She had been mortified when Lestrade had even mentioned it. His surprising thoughts on the victim's extramarital affairs also earned him questioning by his DI. Eventually, Lestrade had been able to get to the truth and had gotten caught up at the station explaining his uncanny 'guess' to the DI and her supervisor, causing him to be late.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the end of the Sergeant's story, "The signs were all there. All you had to do was observe the body, and they would have been evident," he finished with an air of superiority about him.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, and in the moment of silence, Sherlock became concerned he had stepped out of turn.

"You're a bit of an arse," Lestrade told him, giving him a playful wink. Sherlock smirked and played with his food a bit. Looking back on dinner options, a greasy basket of fish and chips was probably not the wisest decision, seeing as how his meals were not what one would consider frequent. Besides, his transport had adapted to going without by now. Still, the dinner before him was too nice to turn down.

"So," Lestrade tried to pick the conversation back up when it was evident that Sherlock wouldn't volunteer anything on his own. "What's your story, Kid?" he finally asked, taking a few bites of the chips off of his own plate.

Sherlock tensed at the question. "There's no story," he replied, continuing to pick at his fries to avoid giving away too much information.

The older man seemed to accept that answer for the time being. Lestrade still seemed to be trying to figure out the best way to get the most information out of Sherlock. Sherlock decided to try and just keep his head down. Eventually, this would be over, and the two of them would just go back to their separate worlds where eventually Sherlock would be forgotten.

"Okay," Lestrade tried again, wiping his face with a napkin before crossing his arms on the table to zero his gaze in on Sherlock. "Put your big brain to work on me then."

Sherlock tried not to choke on the food he had been in the process of eating. "Excuse me?" he asked with the raise of a single eyebrow.

"Come on, prove to me that was all you with the victim earlier," Lestrade challenged, pointing his finger in Sherlock's direction.

"You still don't believe me?" Sherlock couldn't decide if he should be offended or not. He had just given the answers to his most recent case on a silver platter, and Lestrade _still_ was doubting his intelligence.

Lestrade gave him a small shrug, keeping his eyes focused on Sherlock.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze, focusing on the adult sat across from him, really taking time to go over the little details he wasn't able to get during their initial meeting this morning.

"You're the oldest of three children. You grew up with both parents, but your mother left the family when you were a young teenager, possibly slightly younger, due to an affair," he started, releasing his first breath, continuing when he realized the man wasn't going to interrupt him. "You've worked hard to get where you are in the Yard, but you've had to take a step back recently, letting opportunities to take your Inspector's test pass you at several opportunities. Not because you wouldn't pass with flying colors. More likely, you are putting the test off because of your wife. A wife that you are currently in marriage counseling with due to her infidelity," he looked nervously to the older man across from him, unsure how Lestrade was going to take him throwing his failing relationship back in his face.

However, Lestrade just sat there and gaped at him, apparently unable to find the right words to put Sherlock in his place.

"You also play the guitar but haven't played in quite some time," Sherlock added on at the end, feeling uncomfortable with the awkward silence that had settled over the table.

"Blimey," Lestrade stared at him, still dumbfounded at Sherlock's deductions. "How," he tried to start again, shaking his head. "That is impressive as hell, kid!"

Sherlock beamed at the praise. It had been some time since he had heard any directed at him and it made his brain spark with the excessive serotonin levels from receiving said praise.

"As I said," Sherlock tried to hide the smile that had formed on his face, "it's all there. You just have to observe."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, "So, how do you _observe_ that someone is in marriage counseling?"

Sherlock sighed; the answer was _so_ obvious, "This morning when we met, you had dates and times written on the inside of your notepad that is in your breast pocket that was under the name, 'Hannah.' You continuously worry your thumb against your wedding band," he stopped to make a point at the man that was unconsciously rubbing the said ring in front of him. "You're concerned about something to do with your wife, presumably, this 'Hannah,' that you've made a point to put weekly dates on the very front of your notebook so that you don't forget them."

Lestrade stopped subconsciously rubbing his ring while his gaze dropped to the notebook resting in his breast pocket.

"Being a homicide detective, you are away from home," Sherlock picked back up again, "with unpredictable hours. It leaves plenty of time to find a mistress. However, that's not what is ingrained into what makes you, you," Sherlock paused. There was always one more deduction than anticipated. "You clearly still remember your mother's affair. You wouldn't break up a family, especially your own, like that. Therefore, your wife, Hannah, cheated on you, and you've been in marriage counseling for approximately four weeks," Sherlock finished with a small flourish as he rewarded himself with a chip.

Greg smirked and took a sip from his water glass, the expression not what Sherlock had been expecting.

"You're too smart for this, Sherlock," the Sergeant started in, causing Sherlock to stiffen. In the back of his mind, Sherlock had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of course, Lestrade had ulterior motives on his mind regarding Sherlock's wellbeing. "Let me help you. I know some people. I can get you someplace safe tonight."

Sherlock scoffed, "What makes you think I need help?" he asked with a roll of his eyes.

"I'm serious, Sherlock," Lestrade argued, bringing his hands from his chest back to the table and staring at Sherlock intently. "I don't know what your story is," he nodded towards Sherlock, trying to relax his posture to not appear intimidating. "I can't make the grandiose observations that you can. You're not just some ordinary run of the mill homeless kid, though. Clearly, you're not scared of the cops like the rest of them are. Just look at you," Greg paused to wave his hand toward him. "You're posh. Real posh."

Sherlock let out a snarl when the Sergeant's guess hit a little too close to home.

"It's in the way you present yourself. It's ingrained into your DNA. You're no dummy. So what is it, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, narrowing his gaze, and suddenly Sherlock felt his palms go sweaty. "You didn't like that mummy and daddy had your life laid out in front of you? Decided you could get by on your own? Ended up falling in with the wrong crowd. Maybe got yourself hooked on drugs."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Sherlock bit out, the response coming out louder than Sherlock had anticipated in the quiet cafe.

"Yeah?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows in question. "Fill in the answers for me then. I don't care about your past," the Sergeant looked at him with pleading eyes. "I care about your future, Sherlock. Let me help you."

That spark of apprehension that Sherlock had felt earlier and returned with full force. What had he done to himself? Here he was, sitting, eating his fill of fish and chips with enough cash and drugs hidden in his backpack to get himself arrested for the rest of his life. To make matters worse, he was sitting across from a police officer no less. He had to get out. Now.

Acting on pure instinct, he grabbed his backpack and darted out of the door that he had conveniently sat next to.

"Shit," the muffled curse of the Sergeant could be heard as the door to the cafe slammed closed behind him.

Sherlock ran. And just when he felt that there was a safe distance between himself and the police officer, he ran harder. Sherlock picked a random alley, hopping the fence that blocked the middle of the alley, and then he continued his mad dash. His lungs were on fire and his legs ached as he kept running. Still, he didn't look back. Once he was finally several blocks away from the fish and chips cafe, he came to a stop outside of a run-down warehouse.

Quickly checking his surroundings to make sure that the eager Sergeant didn't follow him, he slipped through a break in the chain-link fence surrounding the building. The abandoned warehouse was cast in darkness, with no outside lighting currently working. One had to know exactly where the side door was at this time of night. Sherlock took a deep breath before giving three distinct knocks. He hadn't planned on coming back here tonight. He had not had a chance to sell off his entire inventory, which would not be taken lightly by the people inside.

Chains and locks could be heard clinging from the other side of the door before it cracked open ever so slightly. Sherlock could see a glimpse of a familiar scarred face before the door opened the rest of the way to reveal his least favorite grunt man. The large hulking man blocked the door and his entrance to the building while crossing his arms to look down at him as if he were a piece of gum he had stepped on.

"Let me in, Boris," Sherlock insisted, looking back carefully at the street to make sure that he was still alone.

"What'd you do, Shezza?" Boris asked, his thick Russian accent dripping with disdain. "You didn't get caught by the police, did you?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Clearly, I didn't get caught, or I wouldn't be here," he finished with an eye-roll.

Boris snatched him by the front of his shirt, bringing up to his toes, "Watch it, boy!" he snarled.

Sherlock didn't flinch and did his best to keep an even gaze directed at Boris until he was firmly placed back on the ground. He let out a small breath of relief when the man released him. Boris turned to go back inside, leaving the door open for Sherlock to follow in behind him.

"Pass it over," Boris ordered once Sherlock crossed the threshold.

Sherlock sat his backpack down on the card table that stayed in front of the side door so that the guards could sit and play cards while they waited for the street workers to return at night. He watched as Boris dug through the bag until he found the hollowed-out book that stayed inside. Sherlock took a deep breath while he prepared himself for the brute's tirade to start. He watched as the man opened the book and counted the cash and remaining vials stored there.

"You're short," he stated flatly, looking to Sherlock for answers.

"There was a murder at the park. The meet up didn't happen," Sherlock explained. "I'll make sure to get the rest of the inventory out. I've got a lead on some rich university kids. I should be able to get the rest of it cleared out by the end of the weekend."

"Your inventory is short," Boris clarified, leveling a knowing look at him.

"Consider it an advance. Please," Sherlock pulled the missing vial out of his pocket to show to the man.

Boris shook his head and scoffed at Sherlock's daring attitude, shooing him away with a growl.

"Tomorrow," the bulky man ordered, and Shezza nodded his relief and made his way to find an empty room to stay for the night and off of the Sergeant's radar. "And Shezza?" Boris stopped him before he could get far. "Try to steal the inventory again, and you'll have Volkov to deal with," he threatened.

Sherlock gave a sharp nod of agreement before leaving to find a room to hole up for the time being. The warehouse appeared relatively empty tonight. It was still early, so the other drug runners were most likely out. This made it easier to find a room for himself. It was small, probably used as a storage closet when the warehouse was functional, just big enough for himself, which was what he wanted. He closed the door behind him to indicate to other street workers that may trickle in through the night that he was not up for any company. Settling down on a beat-up mattress that was best not to put too much thought into what it was infested with, he pulled the vial out of his pocket and stared at it. He had his belt off in a short time and expertly fastened it as a tourniquet on his upper arm. He was looking forward to shutting his brain off for a few blissful hours. Before drifting off, his last thought was wondering what the Sergeant from earlier would think if he could see him now.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your kind words! It's much appreciated. I love these two. This chapter will be my last update for a couple of weeks while I wrap up a couple of big work projects, followed by a stay-cation. Enjoy the next installment!

**Chapter 3**

Tiredly, Greg walked into work the next morning with a large cup of coffee in his hands to make up for the lack of sleep from the night before. After a solid hour-plus searching for Sherlock, he finally resigned himself to accept that the kid had slipped into the shadows of London. If Sherlock had been on the streets for any length of time, he probably knew of all of the best hiding areas in the nearby vicinity, giving Greg almost no chance at finding him, even if he stayed up all night to try. How things ended with Sherlock left Greg feeling unsettled for the rest of the evening. He had been stupid to think that Sherlock would let him in so soon, despite Greg's hopes. Still, even after a night of restless, half-sleep, wondering if he had done more harm than good, Greg had to believe that all hope wasn't lost for his new friend.

With renewed determination, Greg walked into the Yard and made a detour to a small area of the station a floor below his. He would track down the kid, Sherlock. The lad was too smart to be on the streets on his own. Surely, there had to be _someone_ looking for him. If Greg couldn't connect with the kid, then maybe he could help guide him back home. All he needed was a little help.

"Greg!" a familiar voice greeted him once he rounded the corner to his destination.

"Joshua!" Greg chuckled, and the two gave each other a brief hug.

He and Joshua had gone to secondary school together and were reacquainted with each other when they both joined on at the Yard around the same time. Joshua was the nerdy, friendly sort. He wore his standard plaid shirt and khakis and had the same style of glasses that he remembered him wearing back in the day. Still, it was nice to have someone that Greg trusted to come to with things that may not always be his job description. Also, Joshua was handy to have on your team when it came to science fiction on Trivia night.

"What brings you down here, Mate?"

"Listen, I came across a kid yesterday," Greg began slowly, hoping that Joshua would be able to help him with his request with his current workload. "Wanted to know if you'd be able to dig up information on him."

Joshua pulled a pen out from his pocket and reached for a piece of scratch paper on his desk.

"Of course," He nodded. "What's the case number?"

"This is more of a personal favor," Greg confessed with a shy smile. "We met yesterday at a crime scene I was working on, and I'd just really like to help him out, but all I've got is a name."

"I've worked with less," Joshua replied with a nod. "Name, approximate age, and any other helpful information you could give me would go a long way," he finished, pen hovering above the paper, ready to jot down whatever information Greg could provide.

"Kid's name is Sherlock. He says he's fifteen. A few centimeters below me," Greg paused to level his hand at just about eye level to demonstrate. "Blue eyes, shaggy black hair," he paused, thinking back to yesterday, trying to recall the details. "Very well-spoken. Smart. I had a suspicion that he came from a more well-to-do family, but that may be more my gut talking."

Joshua nodded as he finished writing all of the notes on his scrap piece of paper. Greg hoped that it would be enough to go on. It wasn't much, but with any luck, his friend would be able to work his magic.

"Alright, yeah," Joshua nodded. "Sherlock is an interesting enough name if he didn't try and give you a fake," he shrugged. "But I'll try and run it through a few systems, see what I can find out. I might have something for you later this afternoon, tomorrow at the latest. If I don't turn anything up now, I can at least flag the name and description in case someone runs into him in the future."

"Thanks. I appreciate it," Greg waved off his old friend, heading back to his own desk to begin his day.

After seeing the mountain of paperwork that had piled high on his desk, Greg decided that he needed to try and focus his attention on the current task at hand. With a sigh, he fell into his chair and buried his head in his work, hoping that he would be able to get through enough to not have to come in this weekend. Although, he supposed that he should be thankful that he ran into Sherlock when he did, or they would have been working the case through the weekend. He paused from his report writing, shaking his head. He had made it an entire hour without thinking about Sherlock. It was time to accept the facts. The kid was gone, never to be seen again. Greg sighed, it was a damn shame. Hopefully, a weekend of paperwork would be enough to distract him from imagining the washed-out face of the teenager with bloodshot eyes.

Finally, his lunch break came, and he went to meet Hannah at a favorite sandwich shop of theirs. They've had weekly Friday lunches as far back as he could remember. Hannah used to joke that it was tradition since their first date had been a Friday afternoon picnic when they had first met in college. Rain or shine, angry or happy, they had kept their tradition through it all.

Hannah waved at him from the entrance, opening the door for both of them to enter. They made their way to the deli counter, ordering their lunches before moving to sit at their usual table by the window. After each taking bites of their sandwiches, they settled in with some small talk. Hannah was a project manager at a local advertising company and had been in the middle of a big project that was taking up as much of her time as Greg's typically did.

"I didn't hear you come home last night," Greg mentioned off-handed, taking another bite of his sandwich.

Hannah gave him an apologetic look. "I ended up staying at the office," she explained. "Besides, I thought you were on a case?"

Greg frowned at her answer but kept his suspicions to himself. "Uh, yeah, but we wrapped it up. I didn't get home until late. Trying to tie up some loose ends," he shrugged.

"Anything exciting? Did you catch the bad guy?" she asked with a smile, giving him her full attention.

"Actually, yeah," he chuckled. "Wouldn't have been able to do it without the help of this kid I met today."

Hannah finished off her sandwich, giving him a questioning look. "Oh yeah?" she asked him curiously.

Greg launched into the story of how he met Sherlock, how the kid had guessed everything down to the string of male prostitutes, how he had taken him out for dinner to celebrate, and eventually lost him. Hannah stroked his arm as Greg continued to remiss about not being able to reach Sherlock. That he couldn't say for sure, but he was convinced the kid was on drugs. He explained that Sherlock was just someone he was compelled to help. Hannah shushed by resting a gentle hand over the top of his arm.

"Greg, you can't save them all," Hannah whispered across from him.

"I know, but..." Greg trailed off. "This kid, he's remarkable, Hannah. All that brainpower and he's letting drugs rot it away. I just thought we connected. I thought I could reach him, ya know?" Greg scoffed at his vision of a perfect world.

"It will all work out," his wife tried to appease him. "Maybe you already made a difference. You just don't know it yet."

"I just wish there was more I could have done," Greg leaned back in the chair and looked out the window. "After my mum left, dad was a mess. I was raising my siblings and trying to get through school, becoming a mess myself. If it wasn't for my football coach, Mr. Frederick, picking me up when I was down, I don't know if I would have made it. It would be nice if I could return the favor someday."

Of course, Greg had also assumed he would be a father, himself, by now, or at least that being a possibility in the near future. It was another issue that was discussed recently in therapy.

"I bet you could talk to social services," Hannah perked up, excited that she had come up with a possible solution. "I bet you would be a great mentor for some of the kids in their care!"

She seemed so excited by her suggestion that Greg had to smile in return to avoid another argument. Hannah was oblivious to the problem at hand - he already had a particular kid in mind.

"Look, I think you should look into it. Although, it would just be one more thing to take up your time," she countered, letting locks of her long, dark blonde hair fall to cover part of her face, hiding it from view.

"I'm sorry my schedule hasn't been what we talked about," He apologized, looking down at his empty plate.

"Hey, it's better than it has been," Hannah conceded with another smile. "It's not like my job hasn't kept me away the last couple of nights. Big deadline to get this ad out. I know you're trying. We're both trying," Hannah told him, her smile turning sad. "Besides, I knew what to expect when agreeing to marry a copper," she joked with a wink.

"Listen, Hannah," Greg started and then paused, unsure how to continue.

"It's okay, Greg. Don't say things that you aren't ready to say," Hannah interrupted him. "I hurt you. I accept that it will take time to work through that."

They stared at each other with equal looks of acceptance. Greg had been so certain that they would work things out in the beginning. Now, he was beginning to become more resigned to the fact that his previously imagined life with the wife and two-point-five kids was maybe not how his life was supposed to go.

"Listen, I've got to get back to the office," Hannah apologized, standing up from their table.

"Yeah, me too," Greg shook his head, shaking his melancholy thoughts from his mind. He gathered up both of their trash before walking Hannah to the door.

"Bye, Love," he gave her a peck on the cheek. He watched her as she turned a corner towards the tube that would take her back to her office.

He stayed in front of the deli for a minute, trying to process his thoughts. So much had happened within the last twenty-four hours, he found himself longing to escape the confines of the office for the afternoon to go home or to the pub to process it all. Not even today, but the past three months that he had suspected and then confirmed Hannah's infidelity. Add in a sprinkle of marriage counseling and he started to wonder how much was too much. Unfortunately, Greg suspected that DI Littleton would be sure to send any unfinished paperwork with him to the grave if he didn't finish it.

Resigned to another mundane afternoon of reports, and avoiding his DI, he turned the opposite direction to begin his trek back to the Yard. Maybe he would reward himself with a night to himself at the pub this weekend.

"She's having an affair, you know," a voice from the shadows of an alley he was passing grabbed his attention.

Greg squinted into the alley that was cast in dark shadows, ready to tell whatever vagabond that was lurking to get lost. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he let out a sigh of relief, seeing a familiar outline come into view.

"Sherlock!" he called out, feeling relieved, eagerly stepping into the darkened alley to greet the teenager.

Red flags immediately began popping up as he took in the kid before him. The once-proud standing Sherlock was now slightly hunched over. Concerned that the kid was injured, he set his detective eyes over him, looking for any potential wounds. However, the closer he got to Sherlock, he could see his eyes were bloodshot and his pupils had gone pinpoint despite the lack of light in the alleyway. And, wait, did he just tell him that Hannah was having an affair?

"Sherlock, you alright, mate?" he asked, cautiously inching his way closer, wanting to take his time and talk slowly to evaluate the kid further.

"Bloody lights won't turn off," Sherlock growled at nothing in particular and began pacing while grabbing at his hair.

 _The bloody lights won't turn off?_ He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You mean like the sun! Christ, Sherlock," Greg could feel his heart plummet. That statement only confirmed his suspicions. Drugs. "Come on, Kid. Why don't you come back with me, yeah?" he asked, moving to grab Sherlock's elbow.

Sherlock spun away from him but stumbled, completely losing his balance. Greg sprang into action, reaching out for Sherlock, barely catching the lanky kid before he hit the ground.

"Easy there," he whispered. Greg helped Sherlock right himself and slowly relaxed his hold without completely letting go, just in case.

"Not going to the police. Can't - " Sherlock mumbled. Weakly, he continued to struggle against Greg without putting up much of an actual fight. The slow, sloppy moves made it easy for Greg to contain him easily.

"Alright, Sherlock. Calm down," Greg instructed. When Sherlock squinted again and tried to hide his face from view, Greg fished his pair of sunglasses out of his inside jacket pocket and placed them on the kid's face, which seemed to help him relax. "Come on," he encouraged Sherlock to come with him.

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to come along easier this go around. The kid's balance was still all over the place and he was unable to walk in a straight line, so Greg grabbed him to help stabilize the poor thing. He threw Sherlock's left arm around his shoulders and placed his right arm around the kid's waist and escorted him, albeit slowly, the few blocks back to his car by the Yard.

Now that it appeared he had gotten his wish and found Sherlock, he realized that he wasn't prepared for what came next. What was he going to do with the kid now? Especially now that his fears about Sherlock's drug use were all but confirmed.

"She's having an affair, you know?" Sherlock grunted as they came to a stop at a crosswalk.

"Yeah, Kid, we talked about this, what? A little over twelve hours ago now? Marriage counseling. Remember? Or all those drugs you're on make you forget?" Greg snapped.

"Mmmmm, I was wrong; she wasn't just cheating. Nope, this is a full-blown affair. She loves him. Probably been going on for months." Sherlock spoke slowly, dragging and slurring his words as he went.

"Sherlock, you don't know what you're talking about," Greg bit back. He didn't need any more reminders about the failings of his marriage, especially from someone who was too high to function as a normal human being.

Sherlock let out a half groan, half growl as they began walking again, dragging his feet as they went. The pair had been given a wide berth as they lumbered across the streets of London. The lanky teen was becoming increasingly more cumbersome and dependent on Greg as they made their way to the home stretch into the parking garage.

"It's with the gym trainer," Sherlock slurred, letting his head loll to the side, resting it on Greg's shoulder.

Greg clenched his jaw and hand around the kid's waist. He was not having this discussion with someone who couldn't even walk in a straight line.

With a sigh of relief at seeing his car, he loaded Sherlock into the front passenger seat and buckled him in.

"Stay," he instructed with a point of his finger and took off toward the station to grab some of his paperwork and let them know he needed the rest of the day.

"Hey, Sarge," Sally Donovan greeted as he exited the parking garage. "Everything okay over there?" she asked, pointing to his car.

"Yeah, everything is fine. Something just came up is all. Family," he explained vaguely, waving his hands. Thankfully, Donovan nodded in understanding and let it drop. With another nod, they both took off toward their separate ways.

Greg ducked into the bullpen where his desk was and grabbed a couple of files to finish up at home. Thankfully, Littleton was in a meeting, so he checked out for a personal day with the promise to be back on Monday. With any luck, he would be able to stay afloat with his paperwork while also managing to figure out what in the world he was going to do with Sherlock.

"Greg!" a voice called to him as he was about to make his exit.

Greg turned to look back at the main lobby doors and smiled at Joshua coming his way.

"Hey, Joshua. Caught me just in time."

"Good, so, um, that kid you wanted me to look into?" Joshua asked. At Greg's nod, he continued, hesitating ever so slightly. "So, every time I tried to pull him up by name, the whole system just crashed. I tried by the description you gave me, but nothing that matched came up. Tried to search other names, the system works. I tried to look Sherlock up again, and everything crashed. It was the weirdest thing."

Greg frowned at what his friend was telling him but knew that computers were not his strong suit. "So, I take it that means you weren't able to come up with anything?" he asked, feeling slightly defeated. Yes, he felt obligated to help Sherlock. He was eager to help Sherlock, even. But realistically, he knew that the best chance of helping Sherlock was to get him back to the people that were missing him.

Joshua shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, Mate. I left some flags up in the system, so I'll let you know if someone files a report for a missing kid matching Sherlock's description. Unfortunately, I couldn't flag the name without the whole system crashing. I'm telling you, Greg, it was the strangest thing. It was almost like it was some kind of virus."

"A virus?" Greg asked, becoming alarmed.

"I don't know what to tell you, Mate. I even got IT involved and they're clueless," Joshua replied with a shrug. "But I do have some thoughts if you have a moment," Greg nodded for Joshua to continue. "First, it is possible that Sherlock hasn't been missing long enough for anyone to file a report?"

Given the current state of the kid, and his own suspicions, Greg knew that was unlikely.

"Option two - he's pissed off his parents or whoever enough not to file one. Or, they just don't care enough to?"

Considering that the kid has angered him more than once in the twenty-four hours that he's known Sherlock, that possibility was slightly more likely.

"Or, and I've seen some weird stuff in my time, so I'm really just throwing this out there, but it's possible someone doesn't want him found."

"Excuse me?" Greg asked, alarmed at the suggestion.

Joshua gave a small shrug. "I don't know what to tell you. It just feels like something strange is going on. Maybe it's just a glitch in the system. The last theory is also just the conspiracy theorist in me," Joshua finished with a wink.

"Right," Greg replied slowly, unsure what to think of the last option himself. "Well, thanks again. I really appreciate it."

The two shook hands and went their separate ways. An unsettling feeling began developing in the pit of his stomach as he made his way back towards his car to head home with Sherlock. If someone didn't want him found, what would that mean for Greg when they realized that the very thing they were hiding, had been found.

* * *

" _Yes?_ "

"I thought you'd like to know your little brother has finally been located. It would appear he is in central London."

" _Overdose?_ "

"Unsure. No hospitals have anyone matching his description. It appears that someone entered his name through Scotland Yard's missing person database. Naturally, that was taken care of."

" _Naturally. You'll keep me apprised of the situation?_ "

"Of course. Enjoy your graduation. You are to report to my office in one week to begin work."

* * *

If Greg thought that dragging Sherlock several blocks across London was difficult, it had nothing on climbing up five flights of stairs with the kid due to elevator maintenance in his building. It was a different kind of hell he didn't want to experience again. How he had managed to not run into any of his neighbors, he will never know, but he considered himself thankful that he didn't have to explain himself for dragging a semi-unconscious teenager up the staircase. Finally, after twenty-five minutes from the bottom of the stairs to the top and a vow to start working out again, the two made it through the front door of his flat.

"Sick," Sherlock muttered before Greg had a chance to decide what their next steps were. Greg heaved him towards the loo quickly, cringing when Sherlock stumbled to the floor, falling on his knees, hard. It was not a moment too soon, he thought as the kid began to have an exorcism into his toilet.

Turning to give him some privacy, Greg set about to set the flat up while he waited on the sounds to cease from the bathroom. He set the kettle, hoping the tea would calm them both down. Then he got an extra pillow and blanket from the linen closet to get the couch set up for the kid. They didn't have a guest room, so the couch would have to do. It would also make it difficult to hide him from Hannah. Once he felt sufficiently prepared, Greg went back to check on his guest in the bathroom. Thankfully, it appeared that Sherlock had finished expelling the contents of his stomach and was now passed out and using the toilet as a pillow. Greg grabbed a washrag and doused it with some cold water from the sink before squatting down to try and wake up Sherlock.

"Hey, Kid," Greg whispered with a nudge to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Mmmmmm," came Sherlock's muffled response.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up and then to the couch," Greg directed, wiping Sherlock's face with the damp rag in an attempt to clean him up. Once the cloth was disposed of, he helped Sherlock back up into a standing position. Greg had to grab Sherlock tightly when he felt the kid begin to buckle and waited a moment for him to adjust to the new position before escorting him out of the small bathroom and to the couch.

During the short walk to the couch, Greg imagined that if Sherlock were a sack of potatoes, he probably would have been more helpful. Greg was thankful for the lack of weight the kid had put on, as he was relatively easy to get sorted onto the couch. He made sure that he was turned to his side, with his lanky legs folded up to fit, taking time to remove his shoes before finally making him comfortable with a pillow under his head, covering him with a blanket.

Greg dropped to sit on the floor for a moment to gather his thoughts. He leaned his back against the coffee table and took a minute to watch over the teenager, who was already passed out, again, on his couch. _Christ_ , he thought as he ran his hands over his face. What was he going to do with a strung-out kid? Should he call someone? Should he take him to the hospital? And then there was Hannah to consider.

One step at a time, he thought to himself, getting up from the floor, making his way for a cup of tea and grabbing some of the work he had brought home. He moved his favorite chair over by the coffee table so that he had a spot to spread his work out while keeping an eye on Sherlock. With one last glance to Sherlock to verify that the kid was still doing okay, he opened up the file on top and went back to work. He did his best to bury himself in his work, which did have the added bonus of allowing the next few hours to pass by relatively quickly. He almost felt normal. Greg did his paperwork while trying to convince himself that having Sherlock passed out in a drug-induced sleep on his couch was normal. All perfectly normal.

It was only as it was nearing the five o'clock hour that the kid started to show signs of life again, first with the tremors of withdrawal. Greg moved from his spot at the kitchen table and hovered over Sherlock, unsure how to proceed. He gathered up another throw blanket from the recliner next to the couch and tried to tuck it around the trembling teen. His efforts were immediately undone when Sherlock made a rather dramatic sprint to expel whatever contents were left in his stomach. Greg winced at the sounds coming through the bathroom. He didn't realize there was an emotion that let you feel complete sympathy towards someone and anger towards their actions simultaneously. It was unnerving. How was he equipped to deal with a strung-out teenager? He didn't know. What did Sherlock's future look like? He didn't know. Why was he helping this kid that he had only known for a little over twenty-four hours? He didn't know. He had no answers and all questions.

Greg could hear the toilet flush and then the sink turned on for several minutes before Sherlock came out of his bathroom on his own two feet. Barely. He was leaning heavily against the door frame. Greg decided to go to his rescue. Again.

Instinctively, Sherlock slung an arm around Greg's neck as they replicated the pose that had gotten them back to Greg's car earlier that day. Thankfully, there was not as much distance from the loo to the couch.

"Watch your step," Greg coached the teenager as he led him back to the couch. "Just a couple of more steps." Sherlock could barely support himself, so Greg had to do most of the work while the lanky teenager hung on for dear life. Finally, the two made their way to the destination, and Sherlock collapsed onto the couch in defeat. Once again, Greg helped Sherlock get situated on the couch before he landed on a chair next to it with a thud and took his hands through his hair. What was he going to do?

"Can I get you anything? Water?" he asked softly. Sherlock remained quiet. Greg watched the slow rise and fall of the blankets covering his chest and decided the kid had drifted back to sleep.

The sound of the lock turning in the door brought Greg's attention back to the present. It wasn't even six yet. He hadn't expected Hannah home until much later. Oh, this would not end well.

"Hey. I made it home early," Hannah's voice filtered through the living room. "I thought we could go grab some dinner or catch a movie," Greg cringed in preparation for the explosion that was about to happen. This would not be easy to explain.

"Hannah, sweetie... I uh. Well, you see, after lunch - " he stammered as he rose from his chair to block her view of the living room.

"Let me guess; you got called in on a case?" Hannah huffed. She then tried to make her way around Greg, giving him a look when he wouldn't let her pass immediately. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I was hop-" she stopped mid-sentence, eyes landing on the suspicious blanket-covered teenager currently passed out on their couch. "Why is there a kid sleeping on our couch?" Hannah asked, suddenly aware of the situation. A mixture of emotions was rapidly changing over her face as she tried to process the recent addition to their flat. Greg could tell she was on edge.

Greg tried to rub her arms soothingly, also using them to keep her from going anywhere. "It's just for tonight, maybe the rest of the weekend," he tried to explain. "The kid just needs a place to crash. He'll be gone Monday at the latest."

Hannah looked at him, and he could see that she was confused, tired, and angry. "So you're just bringing kids home to sleep on our couch? That's not suspicious at all!" she argued, breaking free of Greg's hands.

"There's nothing suspicious," Greg tried to explain, but Hannah just huffed at him. "He just needs some help, is all. You know that kid I told you about last night?"

Hannah's eyes narrowed at her husband, "You mean the kid from the streets? The one you thought was possibly on drugs?! Greg! What could you possibly be thinking?" she yelled at him.

Yeah, she was mad alright.

"And I'm yelling, and he hasn't even flinched," she pointed towards Sherlock before bringing her angry gaze back to him.

And there were the crazy eyes. There would be no talking himself out of this now.

"Greg Lestrade, did you bring a high teenager to our home?!"

"Hannah, would you just look at him? He has nowhere else to go," Greg pleaded, hoping that Hannah would see that this was the right thing for the kid. "Yes, he has made some bad choices, but blimey, if he isn't a genius. He's so smart. What was I supposed to do? Leave him passed out in an alley in a bad neighborhood? He's only fifteen."

Hannah sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. ''This isn't a puppy, Greg. This is a kid. A seriously messed up kid," she started, clearly exasperated with the situation. "You aren't equipped or prepared to deal with this. He can't stay here."

Greg frowned and looked down at Sherlock and felt his heart breaking. He hadn't anticipated a scenario where he would have to dump Sherlock off somewhere else. Couldn't Hannah see that he needed to do this?

"You aren't thinking straight, Greg. He's jacked up on god knows what," she shook her head sadly at Sherlock. "What happens if he dies in his sleep? Or better yet, wakes up and has a violent outburst and murders us?" Hannah argued, but Greg scoffed at the suggestion. "There are places that are better equipped to deal with this. Places that aren't our living room."

Greg sighed and looked at his wife with pleading, tired eyes. "I can't kick him out. I won't kick him out. Sherlock has nowhere else to go and no one else to go to. He needs me," Greg knew that much was true. Something in his gut told him that it was up to him to get Sherlock through this next step, whether the kid was ready to get clean or not.

Hannah turned abruptly to the bedroom and slammed the door closed behind her. Greg sighed and grabbed the extra blanket off the back of the couch to cover up Sherlock when he noticed the tremors starting back up again. Greg knew that this was the right decision, Hannah could be mad all she wanted, and he would deal with the consequences later. It's not as if they were on perfectly stable ground as a couple anyway. He sighed and rubbed his hands down his face. This would be brought up in next week's couple's therapy session. With any luck, she would be able to see Sherlock in a new light over the weekend.

He turned his head to look at his new house guest. He would keep a close eye on him tonight and make sure he slept it off okay. It thankfully didn't appear as if he had overdosed—this time. Greg would have to get through to the kid somehow, or there wouldn't be the next time. Sherlock was too brilliant to do this to himself. He couldn't stay on the streets any longer. He'd get him cleaned up, maybe look into some rehab places that would help a homeless fifteen-year-old.

The bedroom door opened again, and Hannah came barging out with a look of fury across her face. She had changed into jeans, flats, and an old t-shirt and was dragging a rolling suitcase behind her as she marched angrily to the door. Greg sighed and stood up to try and stop her, but she brought an angry hand up to stop him.

"Don't. I'm going to my parents for the weekend. I'm not staying here with _that_ ," she spat with an angry wave in Sherlock's direction. "Call me when you've come to your senses," and with that, she left, slamming the door behind her.

"Damn it," Greg muttered and paced his living room for a bit. She'd never been the one to leave before. And Greg had never left, per se. He just took to sleeping at the office when he initially found out about Hannah cheating. He just played it off that he was stuck at work. He couldn't believe that she actually left without trying to talk this out.

The sound of Sherlock shuffling on the couch and murmuring something too quiet for him to understand brought Greg's thoughts to the present. He had a very high teenager that needed him. Hannah left, she would cool off, and they would deal with this later. Sherlock needed him now.

He moved over to the couch to check on the kid. "It's alright, Sherlock," Greg tried to soothe the increasingly agitated teen. When Sherlock seemed to settle again, he moved back to his chair.

"She's not," Sherlock rasped, sounding slightly more coherent than he had been.

Greg settled in his chair with a blanket, ready to stand guard over his young guest. "She's not what, Sherlock?" he asked tiredly, not expecting a response.

"Going to her parents," Sherlock responded. His eyes were open but glazed over in a haze of drugs. "She's going back to the gym instructor. Never quit seeing him," he finished softly.

Greg glared at him. He wanted Sherlock to be wrong. They had been working on their marriage since he initially confronted Hannah. Marriage counseling, a set day every week to get out and work through their issues as a couple with phones off and no work following either of them. He thought they were going to make it work. She had promised that it had only been a couple of times and that she called it off.

"And how could you tell that? By her suitcase, or how heavy she stomped out the door?" he bit out angrily, only slightly regretting his tone.

Sherlock tried to sit up, but his face scrunched up in pain and he gingerly laid himself back down, flinging an arm over his eyes. Greg looked around to turn off a couple of close-by lamps, bringing the living room into mostly darkness.

It didn't matter how he knew. The kid was able to figure it out after only knowing him for two seconds. He was probably right.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock rasped in response.

"And what is it exactly that we are sorry for?" Greg bit out sarcastically. "Sorry for my wife, or sorry for you being high?"

"Mmmm, yes. All of it, Graham," he mumbled back.

"It's _Greg_ ," he replied, more than a little put out by the fact that he had a kid that couldn't even remember his name while he was in his own home. He glanced down at his watch and saw that it wasn't even seven yet.

It was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

_Mycroft reminded him not to get too close to the water's edge as he bounced happily along the creek. He was returned to a time before he felt like he was crawling out of his skin. A time before he longed to calm the storm that raged in his head. A time before his parents had given up on him. He was a pirate again. Mycroft was by his side as they played along the creek that ran through the property of the country estate he had grown up in. Wooden sword in hand, he dashed along the creek's edge, his wellies splashing happily along the rocky shore as he took off on his adventure. Redbeard barked merrily along behind him._

_It was late Autumn in the country. The grass had turned brown with the season, and what few leaves that were left on the trees shone with bright golden colors. The creek where he played pirates with Redbeard was full and made calming noises as the water rushed over various rocks that tried to stand in its way. Sherlock was happy._

_"Careful, Sherlock," Mycroft's worried voice yelled from behind him. Mycroft was always the worrier._

_Sherlock turned to show him he was okay, that Mycroft needed to stop worrying and start playing. However, a slight miscalculation in his turn, and he slipped on a wet stone that had been smoothed over time by the rapid waters of the creek. Without anything to grab onto to stop his descent, he crashed into the frigid waters of the creek._

_"Sherlock!" came Mycroft's panicked scream from somewhere behind him._

_Sherlock attempted to struggle and swim towards the shore, but it was useless trying to swim against the current. He was too small, and the creek was too powerful. It was tempting just to give in and let the waters take him to parts unknown. He watched as his pirate hat floated off, getting hung up in some overgrown brush. Sherlock watched as the hat grew smaller as he was carried away from it. The only thought running through his head was concern that he would not be allowed to be a pirate any longer._

The clattering of dishes coming from somewhere nearby cut through his dreams loudly. Sherlock squinted his eyes open with a cringe and was momentarily disoriented until he remembered that he had found Sergeant Lestrade and had been brought back with him. He was surprised to find himself in Lestrade's flat and not dumped in a cell at the Yard. He supposed that he should be thankful for that as he stroked the comfortable blanket that had been tucked around him.

"He wakes," Lestrade's voice came from the kitchen. The other man walked into the sitting room, drying his hands with a towel. The Sergeant looked over him curiously, as if looking for some kind of answer hidden under the blankets along with Sherlock. "How about some tea and toast?" he suggested, tossing the small kitchen towel over his shoulder. "Think you can keep that down?"

Sherlock nodded in agreement and immediately regretted it. His brain felt as if it had been turned into various metal pieces, each one scraping against his skull rather loudly. Once the scraping in his head stopped, he was able to pull himself into an upright position slowly. He slammed his eyes closed once he made it to his destination, mentally willing his stomach to stop churning. The only thing saving him from puking was the fact that his stomach was completely empty. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink since his dinner with Lestrade… Yesterday? Two days ago? Sherlock honestly wasn't sure how long it had been, or even what day it was.

After his stomach finally decided to calm down, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes to take in the flat around him. The wall to his right had a large window with sliding glass doors that led to the balcony outside. Sheer, dark blue curtains had been drawn to help diffuse some of the sunlight filtered through the windows. The darkened room allowed his eyes to adjust, letting him glance curiously around the flat. It was small but not overly cluttered. The couch was dark midnight blue. Sherlock ran his hands over the material of the cushions and sighed contentedly; it was so _soft_. The rest of the living area was stylishly decorated—obviously, her taste and not Lestrade's. However, a couple of shelves on the bookshelf to his left were adorned with a football, college diploma, and a couple of awards from the Yard that belonged to Lestrade. A square kitchen with a proper table and chairs set up was to his left, flowing into the living area. Directly in front of him were the only bedroom and bathroom of the flat. Both doors were open, showing that they continued with the rest of the flat's dark blue and gray decor.

Lestrade came back in front of him with a teacup and placed it on the coffee table, followed by a plate with two pieces of lightly buttered toast.

"If you can keep that down, we'll see about something a little more substantial for lunch later," he offered before moving back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to himself once more.

Sherlock frowned at the offerings in front of him. Why was this man helping him? More troubling was how guilty he felt. He had not anticipated that emotion. The last time he remembered feeling any remorse for his drug use was when Mycroft had walked in on him, needle still in his arm. He had felt a little guilty then. Then that guilt turned to anger when Sherlock remembered how Mycroft had abandoned him with their terrible parents without so much as a look back.

Sherlock took a cautious sip of tea, waiting until his stomach gave the go-ahead before consuming any more. Why him? Of all the downtrodden, drug-addled youth that was hiding in the cracks and crevices of London. Why him? Some other part of him that he thought was long gone and buried was glad for the attention. No one had been there to let Sherlock know of his brilliance. He was the idiot of the family in the eyes of his parents. A shadow that merely tainted Mycroft's genius. Known as the freak at his previous schools. Even the tutor his parents had gotten for him was troubled by Sherlock's ability to see through him. But Lestrade... Lestrade accepted Sherlock's brilliance, commended him on it even. Lestrade wasn't afraid. And that in itself was enough to confuse Sherlock. He continued to ponder this as he tried to eat the toast that Lestrade gave him in small bites with small sips of tea in between. He made it through the first piece of toast before his stomach thought he should call it quits.

He turned his attention to the police Sergeant in question, hoping that he would see something he had previously missed. Something glaring that he had missed in his drug stupor would point to something going against the man. When nothing immediately jumped out at him, he nestled himself back into the cocoon of blankets on the couch. Lestrade had placed himself at the kitchen table and was occupied with several stacks of papers around him. The combination of the quiet apartment with the softness of the blanket and the couch lulled him back to sleep.

_The waters became increasingly more choppy the further down they carried him. However, it was the cold that was the most striking for Sherlock. The cold seeped down to his bones. It was the kind of cold that made it difficult to do even the most basic things, such as feeling your fingers and toes or breathing. Perhaps those functions weren't as boring as Sherlock initially thought._

_A particular rough spot caused the creek to draw Sherlock under for the briefest moment. He was able to get back to the surface this time, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his head above water. It was becoming apparent that he stood no chance against the waters that had not a care for Sherlock. The creek raged and spun him in various directions, making it difficult for Sherlock to keep his bearings._

_A large boulder made its presence known when he was knocked into it. Sherlock scrappily held on for dear life. His small, frozen fingers created difficulties for Sherlock to hang on._

_"Help!" his small voice yelled into the vacant countryside. He coughed up a sizable amount of water._

_"Oh, Sherlock."_

_Mummy and father had appeared on the edge of the creek, surrounded by naked brown trees that had lost all of their leaves to the season. Now, those leaves created a soft carpeting for the countryside. Sherlock thought it odd that his parents were dressed nicely, wearing bright red clothes that were a stark contrast to the scene. They were even wearing heels and well-polished shoes as if the Fall terrain was nothing to them. They only stared at Sherlock with equal looks of disappointment on their faces._

_"Help me! Please!" he begged his parents. He would have reached out for their hand, but he was too nervous about letting go of his only haven._

_"I'm sorry, Sherlock, you did this to yourself," his mother replied. Short, succinct, no emotion to be had behind her words._

_Sherlock cried, not only because he had lost his grip on the boulder, but because his parents' lack of care for his well being shook him to his core. He was only slightly relieved when he was swept out once more by the creek, only because the water around him hid the warm tears that streaked his reddened cheeks._

Massive tremors racked his body. This was the worst part of withdrawals. This was when he would go crawling back to the warehouse. To Volkov.

"Shhh, shhh. It's alright."

Sherlock, once more, had to reorient himself. The softness of the couch, the warmth of the blanket. Lestrade's flat. He was safe. He wasn't in some alley or drug house that he stumbled upon. He was safe.

"I've got ya. I've got ya," Lestrade whispered to him like some sort of mantra.

At some point, Lestrade had apparently moved from the kitchen table to join him on the couch. He had gathered Sherlock up as close to him as possible, allowing Sherlock and his pillow to rest in his lap. Lestrade was running his fingers through Sherlock's hair and rubbing his shoulder with the other. It was soothing.

Sherlock grabbed onto the comforts offered by the man like a moth drawn to the flame. He buried his face into his stomach. Lestrade seemed to understand and held him tightly. The Sergeant's calloused fingers continued to run gentle circle patterns in his hair. Sherlock could feel the tremors begin to intensify again, but the man only strengthened his hold. It was nice. Comforting. It made him wonder if this was what it was like to have a parent take care of you when one was ill.

"You're going to get through this, Sherlock. I've gotcha," Lestrade told him.

And Sherlock believed him.

_The water had become too turbulent. Sherlock had become too cold. It had all grown too much. It was time to give up. He allowed the water to crush him into various outcroppings of rocks. He let the current drag him under, only to return him to the surface again as if it was mocking his life. He could see the turbulent fork ahead where the creek fed into a much larger river. That is where the white rapids could be seen pounding against other rocks in a fight to make it to the river. The water dragged him below again. This is where the pirate's story ended._

_Something grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, freeing him from the creek's hold. He gasped for air when his head broke the surface, his chest feeling very much like icy daggers were trying to prevent him from getting the air that he needed._

_Strong, tanned arms drug him to the safety of the shore. Sherlock could feel the dry foliage beneath his fingers as he reacquainted himself with the land._

_"It's okay, Kid. I've got you. You're going to be okay," the stranger told him as he administered firm pats to his back to help get the water out of his lungs._

_Sherlock turned to stare at his savior in awe. The man reached back into the creek, pulling out Sherlock's pirate hat that must have gotten loose from the brush and was swept along behind Sherlock._

" _I believe this belongs to you," the man offered him the soggy, black pirate hat with white stitching._

_Both were wet, cold, and bruised, but both would live to be pirates again._

Sherlock jolted awake. In combination with the withdrawals, the realistic dream made Sherlock have to convince himself that his lungs weren't full of water. This time when he woke, the flat was cast into darkness. The tremors that had previously wreaked havoc on his body seemed to have stopped for now. Soft snores came from above him, and he realized that he was using Lestrade's lap like a pillow, and the man had fallen asleep with a protective arm draped over his shoulder.

Someone seemed to want to care for him? That genuinely cared? It seemed too far-fetched to believe.

He tried to reposition himself, taking care not to disturb his caretaker. Still, the arm around his shoulders tightened protectively, and the sleepy snoring of Lestrade immediately stopped at the slight movement.

"Sherlock? You okay?" Lestrade asked him groggily, rubbing at his eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He cringed at the sound of his ravaged voice. He moved to sit up to allow Lestrade to get up from his position. The older man stiffly rose and stretched his back and neck.

Sherlock left the comforting bubble of the couch to use the bathroom. He stared at his reflection as he washed his hands in the sink. He almost didn't recognize himself. His skin was translucent and tight against the bone structure of his face. His eyes were bloodshot, hollowing looking orbs with large black smudges underneath them. His hair was a tangled mess that resembled something closer to a rat's nest than hair. What had he done to himself? He abruptly shut off the sink when he noticed that tears began to gather in his eyes.

The sound of the rushing waters of the creek began to fill his mind, and he felt himself drowning all over again.

He gripped the edges of the sink like a lifeline. He needed to stop this. It all just needed to stop.

"Sherlock? You okay in there?" Lestrade asked him from the living room. His voice marginally became louder as he got closer to the bathroom.

The creek began to overtake him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.

Lestrade was there in an instant, pulling him up above the water again.

The tears came freely now.

"Help me," he cried into the Sergeant's shoulder while grasping tightly to his shirt.

"It's okay, Kid. I've got you. You're going to be okay."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter this week! Thanks for all the love for this story <3

**Chapter 6**

"Lestrade." He answered business-like when the phone on his desk rang through to him.

"Hi, yes, Mr. Lestrade, this is Julie, from Springhill Rehab, calling again."

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What's he done this time?"

"Well, it would seem that your last present didn't last very long. He got his evening phone privileges taken away for the rest of the week for being rude to one of the newer patients. And then, in his group session yesterday, he made some startling revelations about the guest sponsor that came in, which made the rest of the group time deteriorate rather quickly. He's been assigned to kitchen duty for the rest of the week as punishment, but he seems to have taken a rather interesting approach to helping prep the meals."

"I'm _really_ sorry, Julie." Greg began to apologize to Sherlock's therapist, profusely, as had become a weekly occurrence since placing Sherlock into rehab about four weeks ago.

"Mr. Lestrade, he's making the other patient's food _explode_."

Greg let out a snort and then had to stifle the rest of the laughter so as not to upset Julie. Well, that was a new complaint. Greg wasn't exactly sure how to respond to that.

Julie's voice brought him out of his initial surprise, "I know, I told you I wouldn't recommend this," Julie paused.

" _Please_ don't kick him out." Greg cut in. "I know he's difficult. I know he's lashing out. But isn't that what _you_ said would happen? Something about the teenage mind being on drugs during crucial brain development time, or something like that?"

Julie sighed.

"Look, give him something to solve. He needs a puzzle. And don't ask for any more cold cases. He knows the deal. He gets only one a week."

"I'm still not sure that is appropriate for someone of his age. Not completely sure it is an appropriate use of police time either."

"Yes, but it helps. And he's solved two of them so far." Greg volleyed back quickly. "I'll be there for family day on Sunday and bring him a new one. Just... Don't give up on him yet. Please."

There was a long pause before Julie spoke up again.

"Alright, Mr. Lestrade. I'll do my best to help him, but at some point, he needs to be the one to realize why he's here. He needs to realize that this isn't a punishment. He's sick and needs help, and that's what we're trying to offer him."

"Lestrade!" Littleton's voice yelled out from her office.

"I will talk to him on Sunday. Promise. I've got to get back to work. You are an angel sent from heaven, Julie." He rushed his praise towards the very patient therapist.

Julie chuckled, on the other end.

"You can't butter me up, Mr. Lestrade. We'll see you Sunday." She told him before ending the call.

Greg hung up the phone with a sigh. He got up from his desk and headed towards Littleton's office to see what was needed of him. His mind stayed occupied on figuring out what he was going to do with Sherlock in the meantime.

"Sergeant, have you finished the final paperwork for the William's murder?" DI Littleton's voice cut through the fog of his head.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. I'll have it on your desk tomorrow night." Lestrade apologized and scratched the top of his head. "I had to wait - "

"I don't care for the excuses, Lestrade." Littleton interrupted. "I need everything on my desk by the afternoon tomorrow. Before lunch would be ideal, so I can review it. I'll be turning the information over to the solicitors in the afternoon so they can take it from there." She finished abruptly, then folded her hands on top of her desk. "Why don't you have a seat, Sergeant."

Well, this was different. Greg thought and nervously sat down across from the Inspector.

"You've been off your game lately. I'm concerned about your performance. It's not like you to be so distant and behind on your work."

Greg wasn't expecting the 'I'm concerned about your work speech.' He'd seen her transfer people out of homicide for far less than not getting their reports done in a timely fashion.

"Yes, well, I've had a lot on my plate this month." He replied uncertainly as to how much of his personal life to reveal to his superior. So much had changed in the last four weeks, and Greg would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't bringing his home life to work with him.

"I've heard some rumors to that effect. I take that to mean you and your wife are proceeding with the divorce?"

"Uh, yeah. It seems that way. She moved out this past weekend. Probably for the best. Hard to stay with someone who doesn't love you anymore." Greg let out a sigh. "And on top of that, I've decided to take in a kid off the streets with a drug problem. A kid who has decided to make it his life's mission to cause me to go grey even faster than I already am in the small amount of time he's been in rehab. So yeah, that's the short of it."

The pitiful smile from the DI was not what he was expecting.

"I didn't know you had a foster son, Lestrade." She replied, only allowing a small amount of surprise to cross her face. "My husband and I fostered kids for years," She told him, and the personal insight floored him. He had no idea. "We ended up adopting a brother and sister in the system. They're seventeen and fourteen now. They've been blessings. Not to say they haven't had their own issues and monsters to deal with." She finished and turned a picture around on her desk to show him. It was a picture of her and her family in front of the fireplace of their home—all in matching Christmas sweaters.

Greg smiled at the picture.

"I know how difficult it can be. But it is one of the most rewarding experiences you can experience." She told him and turned the picture back around.

"I had no idea, Inspector. Thank you for sharing that with me. Sherlock is special. Sometimes I think he is a special pain in my arse but," Greg finished with a shrug of his shoulders. "He just came into my life one day, and it just seemed right, ya know?"

Littleton smiled and nodded her head. It was nice to be able to talk to someone about this for a change. Someone that found what he was trying to do for Sherlock the right thing to do. Even if it was his strict boss, Greg couldn't remember ever having any type of personal conversation before this.

"We don't have something quite so official yet as far as guardianship. I've been trying to reach child services but have gotten the runaround. The kid won't even tell me his last name—the prat. I was worried I wouldn't be able to get him into rehab, but they let me check him in without something overly official. The rehab facility even had anonymous donors lined up to help take care of the cost. The kid just needs to work on getting himself clean now. Hopefully, he won't get himself kicked out of rehab in the meantime."

"If you don't get some answers with child services soon, let me know. I've made some connections with my years of being a foster parent. I'm sure I can get a few squeaky wheels in motion. In fact, I insist on it."

"Thank you, Inspector," Greg replied, taken aback at the kind gesture from Littleton. "I really appreciate it. I will let you know if I decide to take you up on that."

"Well, maybe this will make your assignment a little more meaningful then." Littleton started with a smile. "You're being transferred to narcotics."

Greg felt like a bomb just went off in his chest. Narcotics? Nothing against the group, but homicide is where he had fought long and hard to get on. Was he doing so poorly that Littleton felt the need to transfer him out?

"I-I don't understand. I know I'm a little behind on my paperwork, but I bust my back for this department day in and day out." Greg argued.

Littleton put up hands in defeat.

"Orders from on high, I'm afraid." She told him, and he still wasn't understanding. "This has nothing to do with your performance. In fact, I argued for you to stay. You are my top Sergeant. I truly believe homicide is where you are mean to be. I am not under the impression that this is a permanent transfer."

"Orders from on high? Like someone requested me?" This wasn't making any sense.

She nodded. "Someone's bosses, bosses, boss, or something I'm told. Seemed to think that you were the right fit for this next project the narcotics team is amping up for." She finished with a shrug.

Greg was totally and utterly confused now.

"You are actually expected to go up there and meet with the lead Inspector about the project before you report to them officially on Monday."

"Right now?" He asked, completely taken aback.

"I'm afraid so. You'll finish out the rest of the week with us to tie up any loose threads you may have, but after that, you'll have a new floor to call home for a bit."

"Right, well, I - Thank you?" Greg was completely confused. "No, but really, thank you for everything. It was nice to be able to talk to someone about everything."

"And you too, Greg. Hopefully, I'll get to meet your Sherlock at some point. Don't hesitate to reach out to me if you have any questions or just need to vent. Being a foster parent is not all rainbows and sunshine. But I promise it's worth it in the end."

Greg nodded and turned to leave her office before traveling to the narcotics floor on autopilot. It seemed his whole life had been taken over, and he didn't know which way was up or down any longer. First, Hannah's infidelity, then marriage counseling, later Sherlock arrived, then Hannah's bombshell that she loved the bloke she was seeing on the side and wanted out. It was just all becoming a bit too much. Now he was being transferred out of his own department?

The elevator dinged, and Greg took a deep breath to stamp down his emotions. Being angry wouldn't do him any good now. And from what Littleton said it was potentially temporary. Get in, get out. Get back to homicide.

"Uh, Greg Lestrade," He introduced himself to the secretary on this floor. "I think I'm supposed to meet with someone this afternoon."

"Yes, Sergeant." The secretary informed him with a clipped, professional tone. "DI Jackson is in his office." With a point in the direction to the Inspector's office.

"Right, thanks." He said before heading in that direction.

The man in question was looking over some pictures on his desk and writing notes down as he went. Greg gave a knock on the Inspector's door to announce his presence.

Detective Inspector Jonathan Jackson was someone Greg had always heard rumblings about in his time at the Yard. He was borderline legend material already at almost fifty. The man was several inches over six feet, with olive skin and dark chestnut hair kept in a military buzz. His deep brown eyes tended to be on the cold side. Greg never had the opportunity to work with him before but know that he commanded loads of respect from just about anyone who was anyone at the Yard.

"You must be Sergeant Lestrade." DI Jackson welcomed him in with a firm shake of his hand. Greg had to force himself to not be too star-struck by the man. "Rumor has it you are the man for our next project."

"So I've heard." Greg joked back. "Any chance you know where you heard that particular rumor?"

"I'm afraid not. Orders from -"

"On high. Yeah, I got that excuse upstairs." Greg interrupted. "Sorry, what can I do to help?"

DI Jackson handed him the stack of photos that he had previously been looking at before motioning for the two of them to sit down.

"Our next project is a Russian drug ring, run by one Alexander Volkov." Jackson started pointing to the first picture of a handsome, slender, bald man, stepping into a sleek town car. "We've had tips and tails on him but nothing solid until recently when we were able to get an undercover officer implanted in the ring for a short time. That's how we were able to get pictures of some of the drug runners and their names. They tend to run with more of the highbrow crowd, people with too much money that they need something a little extra to party with, rich Uni students spending family money, that sort of thing. But they aren't posh enough to stay exclusively with the high-class. Our informant estimates that they are responsible for up to a quarter or third of the cocaine in London alone."

Greg let out a low whistle and began thumbing through the rest of the pictures handed to him.

"Those are some of the drug runners and strong men that our officer was able to get. The drug runners' ages appear to have a wide range. There is no common gender or ethnicity. They are paid in drugs and a small amount of profits. Volkov thinks he is clever by having them smuggle drugs around in old, hollowed out, famous Russian novels, but that is the only link between the drug runners. There are bases throughout the city, but we were only able to access one for a short period of time."

"Yeah? What happened?" Greg asked.

"Somehow, our officer was found out. He didn't make it." Jackson replied solemnly.

"I'm sorry," Greg told him sincerely.

"So you can see we aren't going to take an attack against our own lightly. I presented a plan to the Chief Superintendent, and he approved it. I want one of the drug runners. We know a few of their names or alias' at least. We turn one, get the information we need, and takedown Volkov."

Greg nodded; it seemed like a solid plan. He was about to ask what his job would be in all of this when he got to the last picture in the stack. A shock of black hair and a familiar piercing gaze got his attention. _Shezza_ was written in the Inspectors block lettering above. There was no mistaking Sherlock from a mile away. Everything seemed to tunnel on the picture before him. The world was once again turning upside down on him.

"Sergeant?" Jackson's voice cut through his thoughts, and he scrambled to pile up the pictures and place them back on his desk. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just one minute, I'm doing paperwork on a murder victim, and the next thing I know, I'm on the drugs team. Just trying to wrap my mind around it is all." He covered while pocketing the picture of Sherlock without the DI noticing.

"I realize that this is a unique situation, Sergeant. To be completely honest, I'm not sure why you're here either. However, with that being said, I looked you up. You have a stellar record as an officer. I think we could use that kind of hard work and brainpower here."

"Thank you, Inspector, that means a lot."

"Right, well, finish up what you need to do with homicide and report back here Monday morning," Jackson instructed, and the two men shook hands before Greg took his leave.

Once he was alone in the elevator, he reached into his suit pocket for the picture of Sherlock he'd knicked from DI Jackson. _Of course,_ Sherlock had to be part of a Russian drug ring. Why wouldn't he be? Greg thought sarcastically to himself as the elevator doors opened back to the homicide floor.

He was greatly looking forward to his talk with _Shezza_ on Sunday now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This one was a beast. Almost twice as long as the other chapters. Whew. Enjoy!

**Chapter 7**

Sherlock paced the length of his private room, eagerly eyeing the digital clock that sat on his nightstand, waiting for the moment when it struck noon, signaling the commencement of the weekly 'family day.' More importantly, a new cold case from Lestrade. The previous week's case had been mind-numbingly easy. How the Yarders managed to keep their skulls firmly attached to their bodies was beyond him. At least, their lack of intelligent thoughts allowed him to keep his occupied while his transport rotted away in this godforsaken hellhole. There is only so much talk about feelings or listen to other people ramble on about their insipid lives. It was all so dull.

He continued to pace as another minute ticked by. He had only completed four weeks of rehab, which meant eight trying more weeks to go. It was about as far as he made it into the previous two attempts at rehab that his parents forced him into. Only this time, he saw himself possibly able to stick it out the remaining weeks, beyond that it was difficult to see through his immediate situation. If Lestrade could manage to find some interesting enough cases, he'd be in the clear.

Sherlock finally headed towards the lobby, eager to meet with Lestrade.

The weekly worry began to settle in the pit of his stomach. Was this the week that Lestrade came to his senses? That the man finally decided that he had done his good deed and that Sherlock was no longer worth it. He thought Lestrade was going to tell him something to that effect when they met last Sunday. Sherlock could tell a dark cloud hung over the Sergeant's head. His eyes were tired and had an air of sadness in them. He didn't need to ask to know that things had finally ended with the wife. The way Lestrade kept looking at his watch indicated that she was possibly moving out of the flat today. Neither of them talked about it. And if Lestrade squeezed his shoulder with a firmer grasp than usual when he left, then Sherlock wouldn't bring it up. Men didn't acknowledge their emotions if his father and Mycroft had any say in the matter. He was unsure if it was his place to reassure Lestrade. Sherlock decided that was his father and Mycroft's position on the subject of emotions was possibly his take on the subject as well. The worry began to bloom across his insides as the doors opened. Happy friends and family started to trickle in to meet with their loved ones. Pity that his own transport had different opinions on the matter of emotions.

Sherlock loitered in the back of the lobby waiting for Lestrade to make his appearance, nervously worrying over the cold case file he had been given from the Sergeant the previous week. Would today be the day that Sherlock was no longer worth the other man's time? Already it was half-past noon. Lestrade had been nothing but punctual in the last few weeks.

A familiar head of graying hair and tanned skin came through the front door, and Sherlock felt his shoulders relax automatically.

Today doesn't appear to be that day after all.

Sherlock pauses to look over Lestrade as he makes his way towards him. Lestrade looks irritated as he signs in for visiting Sherlock at the front desk. There is a light sweat breaking on his brow, and Sherlock deduces he had waited in his car for some time before coming in. He seems to have been worrying over something. It is possible that Sherlock's worries aren't entirely without bias. Maybe Lestrade had come to the decision to end whatever you would call the camaraderie that had developed between the two of them. Nothing else appeared out of the ordinary. He was dressed in casual jeans and a plain blue shirt, with his old, worn, dark brown leather crossbody bag which he used to deliver cold cases to Sherlock, much like Sherlock imagined that Father Christmas gave gifts to other children. He wouldn't know about that one. His parents never believed in indulging their children in such nonsense.

"Alright?" Lestrade asks as he approaches Sherlock in his spot in the lobby.

Sherlock simply nods his response and leads them to what's come to be their regular table. The common room was large and spacious, with tables that could accommodate anywhere from two to a much larger family or group gathering. Comfortable couches were spaced in the middle of the room, which is where most of the group sessions took place. A ping pong table was tucked in another corner, with a large bookshelf filled with board games and various books lining the wall behind it. What had come to be their regular table was one only big enough for two, barely large enough to allow Sherlock to go through whatever cold case Lestrade had brought him that week. It was tucked away in a corner between a large potted fern and a rather large picture window that overlooked the facilities gardens.

Once the two took their seats, Sherlock passed last week's file across the table to Lestrade eager to explain the case and get his hands on the next one.

"Clearly, it was the gardener. If you pull the dirt samples that were taken from the victim's fingernails in evidence and rerun it, it will lead you to your answer. The sample should contain red paint flakes."

Lestrade nodded and took the file back from him and placed it in his leather cross bag before turning back to face Sherlock with his hands folded on top of the table.

"Well?" Sherlock asked him exasperated at this cat and mouse game Lestrade had decided to play this week. Solve a case, get a new one. That's how this worked.

"Tell me why you've been an arse this week." Was the reply he received.

Sherlock huffed in response.

"This isn't part of the deal. They can't take your attitude and complete lack of caring anymore, Sherlock. You're going to have to put some work into it."

"Boring."

"No, not boring." Lestrade's finger began pointing at him. "This was the deal, Sherlock. Rehab. Remember?" Lestrade asked him, and Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed into a sulk further in his chair. "Don't get in a strop with me. _You_ agreed to this. You were crying, out of your mind, in my arms," Lestrade started in, and Sherlock's eyes widened immediately. He straightened up and tried to shush the man before other people in the vicinity could hear. "You said you couldn't deal with the drugs anymore. You said you wanted out. This is me helping you get out of that dark place you were in. And you're throwing that chance down the garbage!"

"You were right. I was out of my mind. Clearly, I didn't know what I was talking about." Sherlock argued back. "And you made the deal that I'd get a case to solve a week."

"You're not holding up your end of the bargain. I got called by Julie _again_. You were supposed to behave! _That_ was the deal. You're not going to get rewarded for bad behavior."

Sherlock drummed his fingers anxiously across his forearm, staring the man down across from him. This was a rather unfortunate turn of events. With no case to keep him occupied this week, he would go stir crazy by the evening. It did not bode well for the rest of the week. How Lestrade expected him to make it eight weeks without a case to keep him occupied was beyond him.

"Besides, your caseload will probably drop off for a while. I, uh, well, I got transferred off homicide." Lestrade informed him.

Sherlock almost fell out of his chair at the revelation.

"What?! What did you do?"

"What did _I_ do?!" Lestrade asked with an air of indignation. " _I_ didn't do anything. One minute, I'm at my desk minding my own business, and the next thing I know, I'm transferred out. I start tomorrow."

Sherlock frowned at the oddity of the new information that Lestrade had presented to him.

"So, no more cold cases, then?"

"Not being a part of the homicide department puts a slight damper on that," Lestrade confirmed.

That was disconcerting, to say the least. The three cold cases he had the opportunity to solve while he'd been locked away in rehab had been his mind's only savior from the otherwise mind-numbing tasks that he was asked to do throughout the day. If he had only taken Mycroft's offer to get him into a rather prestigious rehab that their Uncle Rudy had told him about. You simply went to sleep and woke up a new man. But seeing as he hadn't spoken with Mycroft since Christmas, and even longer since he had seen Uncle Rudy. He only assumed that offer was taken off the table now. Pity.

"I was able to sneak out one more for you, though." Lestrade started up again, sparking intrigue in Sherlock's eyes.

Lestrade reached back into his leather bag in search of Sherlock's prize, which he waited for with a very eager expression. What the older man produced, though, was not a file. It was, in fact, a book. A very old book. One that if Sherlock was to guess was more than likely hollowed out on the inside.

_Anna Karenina_

"Where did you get that?" Sherlock whispered.

"The backpack that you left in my flat. I know I agreed to leave your stuff be but things change." Lestrade replied. His tone left no room for argument. "Getting transferred to the Narcotics team will do that to you, _Shezza_." He finished flinging a candid picture of Sherlock on top of the book, in an unknown male's handwriting that had his alias written on top of it.

Sherlock paled. This was not going as anticipated. He tried to respond but ended up resembling something more along the lines of a goldfish.

"So you tell me, Sherlock. Or do you prefer Shezza? Cause I honestly don't know anymore." Lestrade started in on him, in a whisper that did nothing to contain the man's rage. "I can't find you in any system under any name." He began to tick off points on his fingers. "Some random higher up gets me transferred to the narcotics team, who just happens to be beginning an investigation into Alexander Volkov tomorrow." Another tick. "And they had _your_ _picture_ hung up in the DI's office labeled as Shezza." Another tick. "Let's not forget to add that the supposed group that miraculously stepped in at the last minute to fund your little jaunt to rehab that you could give two shits about can't be found. Trust me. I've tried." Another tick. "Things aren't adding up, but the common denominator seems to be you." The last finger ticked off. "So you tell me, Sherlock. What's the truth? Because I'm trying to see it, and I can't find the answer through all the fog in London."

Sherlock got up from his chair without another word. He was not ready to discuss his past with Lestrade. He had been quite hopeful that he would never have to. Even more optimistic that he would never hear the name Volkov again. He tried to tamp down the shakes that were threatening to take over his body with little success.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?" Lestrade yelled to him from their table before grabbing the book and picture on their table and got up to follow him.

Sherlock continued to march toward his room without another look back. He couldn't drag Lestrade into this. The many had been nothing but kind, and he's used up all the kindness the man had to offer. He should leave rehab. Cut off ties with Lestrade. The thought briefly crossed his mind that he could go back to Volkov. With the information that the police were gunning for him, he anticipated that he would be welcome back with open arms.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled out, finally catching up to him just as he had reached his bedroom door.

Lestrade grabbed him by the elbow to turn him around to face him. Sherlock slammed his eyes closed in response, effectively shutting off the rest of his body.

"Kid, come on," Greg begged. "I'm just trying to help you."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock, look at me." Greg tried to prod gently with no success.

"I'll figure something out, Lestrade. You needn't worry about me anymore. You've done enough as it is." Sherlock replied quietly.

"Kid-"

"Exactly." Sherlock cut in, his eyes flaring open in anger. "I'm just some kid to you. I'm just some kid that you took pity on. Like some kind of stray dog."

"That's not-"

"It is." Sherlock cut in before he was able to hear another argument. "And you've gone above and beyond what any adult has done for me, but I can no longer accept your kindness."

"It's not that easy, Sherlock. You're not _just_ some kid. You're m-" Lestrade stopped himself and scrubbed his hands down his face. "You're not my anything, and we don't owe anything to each other."

Sherlock frowned but didn't move, and neither did Lestrade. They stood in some kind of standstill outside of Sherlock's room. He had been trying to ready himself for this moment since Lestrade had taken him in and got him situated in rehab. The moment that Lestrade would decide to clean his hands of him. Now that moment seemed to be a reality. Sherlock was surprised to find that he was becoming quite upset.

"Look, Sherlock, however, you were involved with Volkov... it's behind you. Whatever you did for him while you were in his group, it's behind you, including the drugs. Whatever your life was like before Volkov, whatever led you down that road, it's behind you. Let it _stay_ behind you. You're only fifteen, kid. You've got your whole life ahead of you. We don't owe each other anything. But you owe it to _yourself_ to let that part of your life stay behind you. Only move forward." Lestrade finished. The passionate speech struck a chord somewhere in Sherlock. It resonated somewhere that made Sherlock remember why he had trusted Lestrade in the first place.

"What if I can't do it?" He asked nervously. His voice was so quiet, and he almost wasn't sure if Lestrade had heard him.

"You can, Sherlock. You want my help. You have it. You want me to piss off. You got it. But you have to take your own life by the reigns and make those decisions for yourself, or you'll never be satisfied."

Sherlock began to worry at his bottom lip. The shaking of his limbs began to overtake him. This was not how he was expecting today to go.

"Let's get you inside," Lestrade instructed and moved him into his room and closed the door to any prying eyes that may be lingering.

Sherlock went back to pacing the length of his room again. Lestrade stayed a safe distance from him, remaining close to the door.

This was a moment. A moment that would decide a significant number of things that had a great number of paths that had been laid out before him. Yet, every path he took, the same theme lined the stones that he traveled. Lestrade. The thought came to him in a rush of excitement. A way to help the man you had helped him so much in such a short time while protecting Lestrade at the same time.

"I'll get you in," Sherlock announced, the excitement running through his veins. He hadn't felt this kind of thrill since the last time he injected himself with a seven percent solution.

"You'll get me in?" Lestrade asked with a raise of his eyebrows. He wasn't understanding. What it must be like to have a simple mind.

"Volkov!"

Realization dawned on Lestrade's face, and he frantically began shaking his head. He came across the room and grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to sit on the bed, using the height difference to tower over him.

"Absolutely not," Lestrade was angry. "What could you possibly be thinking?!"

Storm clouds gathered inside of Sherlock. Surely Lestrade was not that dim.

"Because you need someone on the inside. You go in there, and you'll end up like the last undercover officer And I can't - You can't-"

"Whoa, whoa, kid." Greg tried to stop him from his downward spiral. He came to sit next to Sherlock at the foot of the bed. "First, this is my job. I wake up every morning with the understanding that I know what I signed up for. You knew the undercover officer?"

Sherlock nodded, "He was nice. Tried to befriend me a few times but I read him in seconds. I didn't out him, though!" Sherlock pleaded, hopeful that Lestrade would believe that it wasn't his fault for the death of his fellow officer. "He would give me his leftovers if we came across each other." Lestrade nodded his quiet understanding.

"I had just gotten to London. I hadn't even been in the city a week yet before I met Volkov. I was looking for drugs. Made Volkov making a drop with one of the other runners. He threatened to kill me until I kindly informed him of the tail that was currently on him from a rival group. We went for tea after that, like it was the most natural thing in the world." Sherlock paused to collect his thoughts. He couldn't look Lestrade in the eyes. Not yet. "I read him like a book. We talked. He found my level of observation useful. He had me meet with all of his higher-ups, see if I could snuff out anyone who wasn't completely loyal or had something to hide. He lost two men that night. In exchange, I got high with the finest he had to offer." Sherlock revealed. His voice cracked just a hair, and he felt Lestrade place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I was desperate," Sherlock continued. "I'd been without, and the withdrawals were unbearable. The two of us came to an agreement. If I remained helpful, I'd continue to get something a little extra. It seemed like the logical answer at the time. Now I have to live with my choices."

"We all have to live with our choices, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. "You didn't kill those men."

"I might as well have," Sherlock responded. "And if you go snooping around in his territory, you will end up just like the other officer."

Lestrade sighed, "The thing is, I can't risk you either, Sherlock. You wormed your way in and don't ask me how 'cause you are a bit of an arse." Lestrade chuckled, trying to lighten the mood and gently bumped Sherlock's shoulder with his own.

"But, I can help."

"I'm sure we can come up with a happy middle somewhere. One that doesn't involve you going backward."

Sherlock pondered the possible solutions that Lestrade would potentially agree to when Lestrade's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"But before we get that far, we need to talk about something else." Lestrade paused and gave Sherlock a look that he wasn't able to read. "Making people's food explode? Really?"

Sherlock failed to hide his smile, and Lestrade let out a hearty chuckle.

"That's in a way not good, kid." He told Sherlock through his fading laughter, to which Sherlock joined in as well.

"Julie was especially not pleased with that development," Sherlock informed him, still smiling.

The two eased the conversation back to the cold case that Sherlock had finished last week. Once again, Sherlock was filled with a confidence that only came through the support of the man that had come into his life. It wasn't something he knew how to repay, but he would find a way to assist Lestrade in any way he could.

It was time to move forward.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh what a difference a week makes. I hope everyone enjoys this next installment of Like Father, Like Son. This chapter has extra sparkle than normal thanks to Hucklebarry's amazing beta work. I couldn't have done it without you!

**Chapter 8**

_Monday_

Lestrade hesitated at the entrance to DI Jackson's office Monday Morning. In one hand, he was holding a cup of steaming coffee that grounded him to the present. The other hand was holding Sherlock's notes about the Volkov ring, his _Anna Karenina_ book, and the Shezza picture that Greg had nicked last week during his initial meeting with the narcotics inspector. He had no idea how this was going to go. He hardly had gotten any sleep last night thinking of the various ways this could potentially down spiral. _No time like the present_ , he thought before giving a couple of knocks at the entrance of the Inspector's office before he talked himself out of it.

Lestrade had stayed with Sherlock until the very end of visiting hours. Sherlock worked on his notes of the Volkov ring, while Greg would ask questions to get him to supplement some additional answers. All the while, Sherlock tried to pepper in his tries at getting Greg to crumble on his stance to let him be the inside man for the Volkov ring. Greg wasn't sure what had gotten into him, but he had been adamant that it would be a cold day in hell before he'd let Sherlock go back there, even with the Yard behind him. That had only led to another strop that Lestrade was sure continued until well after he left.

"Lestrade, the meeting isn't for another hour. You're not getting cold feet about joining narcotics, are you?" Jackson joked and motioned for Lestrade to sit at the chair opposite his.

"Well, I guess that depends on how this meeting goes, Inspector. I thought it would be best to come to you with this before the meeting this morning. I need to start by saying that I had no prior knowledge that he was connected to Volkov before meeting you last week," Lestrade started and continued when he got the questioning eyebrow raise from the DI. He passed the picture of Sherlock back to the Inspector and laid the book and Sherlock's notes out behind it. "Shezza is really a teenager named Sherlock. I don't have a last name. He's a minor that got tied up with Volkov's group when he came to London."

"You know one of the drug runners?" Jackson asked, with a surprised expression on his face and began thumbing through the hollowed-out book and glancing through Sherlock's notes.

"Um, yeah," Lestrade started. He lightly bounced his left leg rapidly, a nervous tick he had developed while in marriage counseling with Hanah. "He's not an active member of the group currently."

Jackson paused his perusal of the information Lestrade had provided him from Sherlock, "What do you mean?"

"I... Kind of had to check him into rehab. That was about a month ago," Lestrade supplied. He rubbed the back of his neck. He had worried if Jackson would find the information credible after discovering it came from not only a teenager, but an addict at that.

Jackson raised both of his eyes, clearly surprised, "I see."

"Listen, He's a good kid. I had no idea he was involved with any of this until I saw his picture in your office last week. I just needed to talk to Sherlock before I came to you. Sherlock has provided us with an outline of how extensive the ring is, along with three of the major locations, and some names of the more prominent members that you didn't have pictures of."

"That is... helpful," Jackson said without looking up from Sherlock's handwritten papers. Greg became concerned when the look of surprise on the DI's face was slowly changing into one of eagerness, "This could be big, Lestrade. Maybe there was a reason you were right for the job after all."

Lestrade didn't have an answer to that question, either. He had been mulling over that possibility himself all weekend. Not that he had specifically kept Sherlock a secret, but it wasn't as if befriending a fifteen-year-old came up in typical work conversation. More or less one with a drug problem. Hannah knew about Sherlock, but other than probably complaining to her boyfriend about the situation, he didn't think that she knew of anyone of any real power. Littleton knew, but only because he had told her last week after the transfer to the narcotics team was a done deal. It was odd timing, indeed.

He even brought up the coincidence up to Sherlock while they were visiting this last Sunday. Sherlock paused from his handwritten notes to look at Lestrade. He seemed to be in deep thought, as if trying to recollect something that was buried in that big brain of his. The reply ended up being simple;

_"The universe is rarely so lazy."_

That thought was maybe the most accurate statement Greg had ever heard. He hadn't been able to get the phrase out of his head for the rest of the evening.

"So this kid-" Jackson started, distracted. The Inspector was now completely fixated on the new evidence that had been presented before him.

"Sherlock," Lestrade supplied.

"Sherlock. What do we know about him?"

"Well, not much. I think he ran away from his parents. No missing person reports have been filed. I've been sure to check at least weekly. He apparently caught Volkov's eye when he showed off his big brain in front of him unknowingly. Sherlock made it sound like his drug problem had started before arriving in London, so working for Volkov was convenient. We actually met at a crime scene almost six weeks ago now. He had called in a murder at the park.

"And you said you checked him into rehab?" Asked Jackson for clarification, taking a moment to pause from Sherlock's notes on the Volkov ring.

"Yes."

Jackson nodded, taking in all of the information in front of him.

"Are we able to reach him?"

"Uh, well, part of that depends on Sherlock. If he can make it through the day without being an arrogant arsehole, he gets phone privileges in the evenings, and he can have visitors on Sundays."

"Would it be at all possible to check him out for a short period of time?"

Lestrade felt his bottom jaw drop, "Check out? Of rehab? No offense, Inspector, but it's not a hotel. He's a teenager that got himself hooked on cocaine, and god knows what else. He needs to be there."

Jackson leaned back in his chair and raised his hands in surrender. The gesture did nothing to dampen the fire that had been ignited in the Inspector's eyes. It was almost as if the Jackson he had met before had been an act, someone just pretending to know what the life was like of the man he was portraying. The new information Greg had provided him had woken up this new Jackson. Like fueling fire with gasoline.

I understand that, Lestrade. But look at it from another perspective. We have someone that has a very unique and extensive knowledge of the largest cocaine ring London has ever seen. They've already taken one of our own. If we could use Sherlock to our advantage, this could be over before it even begins. And who knows, maybe it would be good for Sherlock to put the nail in the coffin of his former life."

Lestrade frowned. He hadn't thought of it like that before. Maybe that was why Sherlock had been so persistent about helping.

"He's just a kid," Lestrade felt a bit hopeless. How would he be able to protect Sherlock if he had to go back to Volkov? What if it undid any progress he had made in rehab?

"I understand. How about we get to that meeting? This will stay on my desk... for now. Sherlock's notes will no doubt be useful while we work on our overarching game plan. If there is another viable option out there, we will use it. But I want you to work on being open to the option of using Sherlock if it comes to that."

Lestrade nodded and left the office feeling like the walls were beginning to close around him.

_Tuesday_

Lestrade let himself into his apartment after work that evening with a box of takeout from the pub down the street. He went straight for his bottle of scotch that lived on top of the refrigerator and made himself comfortable on the couch.

Today had not gone as expected. He has less than impressed with the amount of information the previous undercover officer had been able to get. Other than pictures and a basic understanding of how one base worked, they had nothing. No data other than Volkov, and all of his drugs, were bad. Jackson had alluded to the rest of the team that there was the possibility of contact with an informant on the inside that had already provided them with some preliminary information (the look that he gave Greg lingered just longer than necessary).

In the meantime, random tasks were assigned while they got started. Interviews with known associates, looking up old case files, that sort of thing. The busywork that would give them the groundwork to build their case against Volkov. It had been an unsettling first couple of days, to say the least.

After getting his assignments, Greg booked it home, unable to escape the feeling that the walls were closing in around him again.

His phone rang, interrupting him from his thoughts on his first couple of days on the narcotics team.

"Lestrade."

_"Did I get the job?"_

"Sherlock?"

_"Of course, it's Sherlock. Now. Did. I. Get. The. Job?"_

"Sorry, just not used to you being allowed phone privileges," he snarked back. "So, what'd you do to not be able to call yesterday?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, _"Julie and I had a... disagreement."_ The rustling of feet against carpet could be heard. Heavy footsteps of frantic pacing. Lestrade could only picture the kid in his small room, pacing like a caged tiger at the zoo. _"It doesn't matter. The job?"_

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "I wish I were more surprised. What Job?"

_"Lestrade, you are not this daft. The Volkov job."_ The tiger growled back.

"No, Sherlock," Greg sighed. "You didn't get the job. You won't get the job." _If I have anything to say about it_ , Greg thought bitterly.

_"Absurd. The information I provided was more than-"_

"Enough information to get us started. It's not going to happen, kid," there was a pause on the other end before the dial tone rang in his ear. "Sherlock?" the blasted kid hung up on him!

Greg drained his glass of scotch in one go.

_Wednesday_

The next day was much of the same. Jackson had pulled him aside to see if he had a chance to reconsider bringing Sherlock into the mission, which Greg politely refused.

He went about his day interviewing a couple of people currently behind bars that had been rumored to work with the mysterious Volkov. While the information he got from them was helpful, it wasn't nearly as detailed as Sherlock's. He decided to stay late that evening to try and get a jump start piecing together a map that compiled a list of information he had received from Sherlock with the information he had learned on his own interviewing today. He was hopeful some other option would magically make itself known, but so far, his brain wasn't making any connections.

Once again, his phone rang at approximately the same time as last night, and he sighed when he saw the familiar number on the call screen.

"No," Greg answered.

_"This is insane. I have been in the Volkove inner-circle. I have been a drug runner. You will not find a more qualified candidate,"_ Sherlock huffed back.

"You're fifteen, kid. It's not going to happen," Lestrade punctuated the sentence with a slam of his hand against his desk. What was it going to take for Sherlock to get it through his thick skull?

_"This is absurd,"_ Sherlock all but growled back at him through the phone. Lestrade could picture the kid talking through clenched teeth, a little bit of the tiger from yesterday coming through.

"No, what would be absurd, would be to allow a fifteen-year-old minor back into a drug ring that would only re-expose him to something that got him sent to rehab in the first place. Not only that, but you will be back on Volkov's radar, and in the crosshairs as well."

_"You're being ridiculous,"_ Sherlock replied before ending the call abruptly again.

"Arse," Greg murmured and slammed his cell phone closed.

When he happened to glance back up from his desk, Jackson's eyes caught his from across the bullpen. Greg sighed. Hopefully, he would be able to keep the hungry DI away from Sherlock long enough to discover a new option.

Greg felt the walls continue to inch their way even closer together.

_Thursday_

"Lestrade," Greeted after taking a sip of his beer and placing it on the pub countertop. Mentally bracing himself for the following conversation.

_"Where are you? It's loud,"_ Sherlock answered back.

"At the pub with some of my friends from homicide. Thursday is our weekly pub night."

_"Charming,"_ Came the sarcastic reply.

"Don't get snarky with me. Not my fault, I have friends, and you have-" Greg cut himself off and cringed. He hadn't meant to be mean to the kid.

_"A crabby police Sergeant?"_

Greg let out a chuckle, "Well, I was going to say drug dealers, but yeah, you do have a crabby police Sergeant. Although, I wasn't half as crabby before I met you."

_"Speaking of drug dealers-"_

"The answer is still no."

_"I-"_ Sherlock let out a short huff. _"I think I am beginning to accept that,"_ Sherlock admitted. Instead of defeated, as Greg expected him to sound, he seemed more... accepting.

Greg perked up at that, "Yeah?"

_"After Monday, Julie and I have come to a sort of truce. I've been giving therapy a chance. She's not a complete idiot like I originally thought."_

Greg let out a low whistle, "High praise."

_"Don't get any ideas. I said, not a complete idiot. There is still a margin for error."_

Greg let out a laugh at that, "Alright, kid. I'm just glad that you're working on it, really. I'm proud of you." Other than a low hum of acknowledgment, silence met him at the other end, "I'll let you go. Talk to you tomorrow? If you can manage another twenty-four hours without getting the phone taken away from you?"

_"We'll see, Sergeant,"_ Sherlock gave a small chuckle. _"A lot can happen in a day."_

Greg hung up the phone. The mates that he had come with were gathered at a table close behind the bar. He smiled into his beer, maybe it was turning into a pretty good week after all.

_Friday_

Lestrade was busy piecing together some witness statements along with his and Sherlock's notes. He had stayed late again to get the job done. They continued to have several small breaks in the case over the last several days. It was thankfully enough to keep Jackson off of his back, and occupied with other things, for the last couple of days about bringing Sherlock in.

_Speaking of_ , Greg thought as his cell phone rang through.

"Hey, kid," came his standard greeting. A witness statement grabbed his attention, and he shoved his pencil in his mouth and dug around for a couple of more things.

Well, this was interesting. One of the other blokes on the team had interviewed someone who was currently in prison, had confirmed that he ran with Volkov's crowd, but wouldn't provide any further information. The officer that took the interview apparently decided that he was a lost cause because he never followed up with anything. His name wasn't familiar to Greg and hadn't been listed on the information that Sherlock had given him, either.

_"And then the King of England came for tea,"_ Sherlock's voice brought him back to their conversation. He hadn't realized that he had zoned out.

Lestrade scrunched his nose, once that had a tick to process, and removed the pencil from his mouth.

"England doesn't have a king."

_"It doesn't?"_

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh.

_"You're distracted this evening."_

"Yeah, just trying to figure something out. Hey, did you ever know a bloke by the name of Andrew Ryan?"

_"Not personally. I'd only heard rumblings of his name. He was arrested for selling to an undercover officer before I joined."_

"Just came across his witness statement is all. Something seems off."

_"He was close to Volkov. I know that much. I find it highly unlikely for him to flip for you. Especially if he is due to get out any time soon."_

"Right, so other than learning we don't have a king, how was the rest of your day?"

_"Tedious."_ There was a brief pause followed by a squeak, and then by the sound of bed sheets rustling, indicated that Sherlock was trying to make himself comfortable in his small bed, _"We talked about my parents today in therapy."_ The end almost tapered off into a mumble. He was so quiet Greg almost wasn't sure he heard what he thought he heard.

However, once the words finally registered, Greg's ears perked up, and thoughts of Andrew Ryan were shoved to the back of his mind. He wasn't used to Sherlock sounding so unsure of himself.

"Oh yeah? You know I could probably contact them for you. If you wanted to give me the rest of your information," Greg offered. He sounded unsure to even his ears.

_"What is the saying?_ _"_ Sherlock started, already sounding output with the direction the conversation was heading. _"I would rather have a hole in my head than deal with them again."_

"The offer is still there. You have to want some kind of clos-"

_"No, Lestrade,"_ Sherlock growled back into the phone effectively cutting him off.

"Just saying." Lestrade wanted him to know that the offer was there if he ever chose it.

_"They were not, nor have they ever been, pleasant people."_ The explanation sounded as if it had come from a small child that learned this lesson years ago. This was just how Sherlock interpreted his past experiences with his parents.

"But they're your parents! Surely, they'd want to know that you're okay. That you're working on yourself?"

_"Lestrade, you figured it out on our first meeting. High-class boy, with the fancy name. I have no doubt that you've tried to look me up in missing persons and have tried to find my parents. I am also betting that you have had zero success in all these weeks that you've known me. Not including the two months, I was here prior to meeting you. They don't want me back."_

Lestrade didn't have an answer for that.

"I'm sorry."

_"Me too."_

_Saturday_

The phone call came at roughly the same time it had the last few days. Greg muted the TV but still had the match going on in the background. He tried not to get his hopes up too much that Sherlock had turned a new leaf. That this was only the beginning of daily telephone calls and getting to know the kid.

"Hey, kid."

Silence came from the other end.

"Sherlock?"

_"We talked about after today."_

Greg frowned, "After what?"

_"After I leave here, Julie wanted to know what kind of support system was in place, what I intended to do about school. That sort of thing."_

"Sounds reasonable."

Sherlock sighed, _"I may have made a mistake."_

Greg sat his beer down on the coffee table to try and prepare himself for whatever Sherlock was about to tell him. He'd known the kid just shy of two months, and he couldn't ever recall a time Sherlock admitted to a mistake. Coming from the kid who was currently in rehab for drug addiction, Greg decided to be slightly concerned.

_"I might have told her that I was coming to live-with-you."_

The last few words were said so fast, Greg thought he had misheard the kid. Live with him. That just made all of this more real. Greg had been so focused on Sherlock's present. He hadn't spared much thought for the kid's future.

_"Lestrade?"_

Oh, shite, then he'd gone and made the kid nervous.

"Yeah, kid, I'm here. I'll be here. You want to come to stay with me after. I'll have a place for you," Greg told him, tapping his fingers on the coffee table. "Maybe it would give me an excuse to look for a new place. Be nice to have a spare bedroom for visitors. Especially if someone wanted to stay for a while."

_"A... bedroom would be... nice."_ Sherlock stuttered.

Greg smiled at the sound of the kid's surprise. As if Greg was going to turn him away at this point. "Maybe check into a flat that's close to a good school."

_"No need to get too involved."_ Sherlock grumbled. Lestrade could hear the telltale signs of embarrassment seeping through.

Greg chucked, "Can't have it both ways, kid. I'm either in, or I'm out."

_"Mmm,"_ Sherlock agreed. _"I suppose I'll allow you in."_

Greg raised his beer glass to no one in particular;

"I'm honored, your highness."

_Sunday_

Greg walked into Springhill Rehab at almost two in the afternoon the next day for his usual visitation with Sherlock. Jackson had called him in at the last minute this morning to tail a suspect. It didn't pan out to much of anything, but he had to wait until his back up arrived. He hadn't even had a moment to give Sherlock a heads up that he would be a little late today.

Jackson had pulled him aside again, said that he had a plan that involved Sherlock going back in. Greg had told him that it had only been a week, and there wasn't any need to jump to anything involving Sherlock just yet. The DI didn't look like he agreed with him, but let it pass for the time being. Greg wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to hold off the overly eager DI from Sherlock.

Greg had to admit that he was pretty proud of Sherlock. It had only taken him five weeks, but he managed to make it a full week (more or less) without losing phone privileges. Greg also made it an entire week without a phone call from Julie. Generally speaking, that thought should make him feel good, however, knowing Sherlock, it also made him think that he better check on the therapist while he was visiting to make sure Sherlock hadn't tied her up or driven her mad.

"Afternoon," Greg greeted the receptionist at the front desk as he went to sign in.

"Good day to you too. Sherlock must have really behaved himself this week to earn two visitors today," Annie replied cheerfully.

"Yeah, I'm pro- Wait?" Greg stopped and stared at her, confused. "Did you say two visitors?"

"yes, a gentleman checked in a little after noon for Sherlock," Annie grabbed the clipboard and searched for the name. "Here he is. Doesn't look like he's checked out yet," She informed him and passed the clipboard back to Greg.

_Jonathan_ Jackson

The last minute tail that Jackson had ordered suddenly made sense. He was just wanting to make sure he would have Sherlock to himself. Greg couldn't decide if he should be angry or furious.

He quickly signed his name to the sheet and went in search of the two. What was Jackson thinking? Coming here to talk to Sherlock without consulting him? Jackson knew damn well that Sherlock was his kid, and he had labeled him as off-limits.

Greg stopped himself dead in his tracks before entering the common room.

Sherlock was his kid. It took less than two months, but at some point, he wasn't just Sherlock anymore. He was _his_ kid.

Damn.

He glanced up into the common area and quickly spotted the two having an intense discussion at Sherlock and his regular table.

"Hi, lads. Have a nice chat?" Lestrade tried to greet the two of them with a friendly greeting. He could tell Sherlock instantly picked up on the sarcasm, but Jackson had not.

"Ah, Lestrade, good timing," Jackson greeted and got up from his chair. "I was just leaving. Sherlock, it was nice to finally meet you. It seems Lestrade wasn't exaggerating about your intelligence. I'll be in touch."

"I'll walk you out," Lestrade told him, leaving no room for argument.

Sherlock tried to get his attention, but Greg shot him a look that said, don't push it.

"That's an interesting creature you've picked up, Lestrade. He'll come in handy," Jackson commented once they were out of the common area.

"I don't know how you found him, but whatever games you're playing end here," Lestrade informed him. "He's already provided us with more than enough information. Sherlock is staying here."

Jackson paused as they reached the entrance and gave Greg a once over. Greg stayed relaxed yet firm. He wouldn't back down from this.

"See, Lestrade, there is one main flaw in your defense," Jackson started. "You aren't the boy's father."

Greg felt that declaration like he had been hit in the gut with a bat.

"He's not giving up his name. We haven't found him in the system. He has no known guardian. And in that sentence, I win. Because the chief Inspector just signed off on my plan, if Sherlock agreed to help, which he did, in exchange for some set upon agreements."

"What agreements?"

"I'm sure he'll tell you about them. He has twenty-four hours to get back to me with the final list while I make some preparations. I'm sure I'll be able to arrange whatever he needs," Jackson said with a shrug.

Greg felt like the rug had been completely pulled out from under his feet.

"It's time to get on the team or get off Lestrade. I'll see you Monday," Jackson finished and let himself out the front door.

Frantically, he fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed a familiar number.

"Hey, yeah, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I need your help."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Y'all, I'm not going to lie, this chapter hit me right in the feels a bit. A HUGE shout out to Hucklebarry, who has been my rock and sounding board. Also, Jasmine, who has been a wonderful supporter and helped fine-tune this chapter. I hope everyone enjoys this as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, you're guys' reviews fuel my soul.

**Chapter 9**

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed in his small room, working on the meditation techniques that Julie had him practicing. It was easier to do in the evening than it was when he was expecting to see Lestrade. Julie had explained to him earlier that this was the ideal situation to practice so that when pressed with circumstances that would require it, he would be prepared with the appropriate coping mechanisms.

Julie had her moments. He wasn't sure how she hadn't kicked him out of rehab, given the number of times he'd blown up at her or just sat in her office and refused to talk for the whole hour. Monday was no exception. He had still been buzzing the morning after his visit with Lestrade. Thoughts had circled in his mind that he would potentially be able to talk Lestrade into going back into the Volkov ring. The chance to get out of there and back out into the real world ended up keeping him awake most of the evening. He and Julie had gone round and round about that one. He had to explain that, of course, he'd have to do _some_ drugs to make himself believable. It wasn't as if he was truly addicted. He'd be able to quit whenever he wanted. Julie, for her part, had remained calm and collected. She had simply placed a vial in the middle of her desk, entirely unphased by Sherlockk's rage that was simmering just below the surface.

_"It's morphine, not cocaine,"_ she had started quietly. _"It will just stay right here for the rest of this session while I ask you some questions. It's not like you're addicted though, right?"_

Sherlock's body was nearly vibrating him out of the chair by the time their hour came to a close. He still couldn't recall any questions she had asked him while his focus was solely on the vial. She had let him pick up the vial on his way out. He didn't care if that would make him fail whatever test she was putting him through. He just needed to hold it.

_"It's just saline, Sherlock"_

Unable to say precisely what part of that statement angered him so much, his body had acted on pure instinct- he lobbed the small vial over Julie's head, shattering it into tiny pieces.

He lost phone privileges that night due to his actions.

Sherlock went back to her the next day with a muffin he had nicked from the cafeteria as an apology. They started on a clean page after that.

By the end of the week, Julie had helped him come to the realization that he couldn't go anywhere near Volkov. He would end back up here all over again. The thought that he would be unable to help Lestrade angered him so much, she had suggested learning a few meditation techniques. Sometimes they helped. Sometimes they brought up memories of his parents and Mycroft. He didn't want to dwell on the past, especially when Lestrade and the future were right in front of him. And he was close, so close. The light was at the end of the tunnel; all he just need to do was stay the course. He wasn't ready to jeopardize any possible outcome with Lestrade.

Memories of years ago bubbled, unwelcome, to the surface. He had not spoken much as a child and knew that his lack of speaking and vocabulary troubled his parents. They had their whispered sessions, arguing over whether or not he'd just be a _normal_ child. How had it gone so wrong when Mycroft was clearly so _perfect_. He remembered clearly the day that Mycroft _finally_ gave up his feeble attempts at the violin and promised his parents that he would continue his musical education on the piano. Sherlock had been eager for the instrument. He spent a considerable amount of time watching Mycroft playing, and enduring countless hours of hearing his older brother drone on, and on, _and on_ , about the making of the violin, great composers, and compositions. The list was seemingly endless. Once he was able to get his hands on Mycroft's old violin, he had taken to the instrument effortlessly. In only hours he had mastered several scales and was feeling quite proud of himself. A noise from behind him made him turn around, and he was surprised to find his parents watching him from his bedroom door, trying to play the violin that was just too large for his small hands. Mummy had turned to look at Father with a surprised look on her face and said, "Glad to know he isn't a complete idiot."

Four-year-old Sherlock had taken that statement more personally than he probably should have considering the emotional abilities of both of his parents.

Now though, he had a tentative plan with Lestrade. Neither of them was overly expressive when it came to words and feelings, but he knew he could rely on Lestrade. Lestrade genuinely seemed to care about Sherlock, despite any of his previous wrongdoings. If Lestrade told him he had a place to stay, then he knew he could count on that. If Sherlock went down that path back to Volkov, there would be no doubt what the outcome would be. If he went back down his former path, he doubted Lestrade would have the patience to wait for him. Again.

The phone rang through to his room. He looked at the clock and was surprised to see that it was already half-past twelve. Lestrade must be waiting on him.

"Yes?" He answered.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. Just ringing to let ya know that you have a visitor waiting for you in the main lobby," came the overly cheerful reply.

"Lestrade?"

"No, looks like his name is Jonathan Jackson."

Jonathan Jackson? Hadn't Lestrade mentioned that was the narcotics DI he was working with?

"Sherlock? Do you know him? If you don't, I can ask him to leave."

"I'll be down shortly," he replied quickly and made his way towards the front lobby. Suddenly his mind was filled with thoughts of a particular police Sergeant, injured in a hospital somewhere. Why else would the DI come to see him?

Once he made it to the lobby, he spotted the DI immediately. The cropped dark hair and military stance gave him away immediately.

"Inspector Jackson?" He inquired when he got closer to the man.

"Yes, and you must be Sherlock," the man offered a hand, and Sherlock returned the shake.

"Is Lestrade alright?" He asked, unable to hide the concern in his voice.

"Oh, yes. Got caught up with something in the office. I'm sure he'll be in later this afternoon," came the Inspector's nonchalant reply. "I actually came here to talk to you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but gestured for him to follow him to his regular table in the common area. It intrigued Sherlock that the man had obviously come here without Lestrade's knowledge. No doubt, the man would have given him a heads up last night or would be here with him already.

"What can I do for you, Inspector?" Sherlock asked as they sat down.

He took in the older man that had taken over Lestrade's regular chair. Evidently, the Inspector still clung to his former military life, based off of his grooming habits and mannerisms. More than likely, he spent his formative years in the service of the Royal Navy. Jackson had then looked to continue that type of structure in his life after being discharged from his military service. Scotland Yard appeared to have ticked off most of his boxes when looking for a career.

"I hear you are familiar with Alexander Volkov?" Jackson asked, trying to open a dialogue with Sherlock.

"You heard correctly," Sherlock replied without hesitation, bringing both hands up into a praying position below his chin.

Sherlock tried to restrain himself in front of Lestrade's new boss. Lestrade should give him some type of prize for holding back an eye-roll at the asinine line of questioning he was being forced to endure.

"Though I have to assume you wouldn't have gone through the trouble of occupying Lestrade during his normal visitation time, only to pop by to share a cup of tea," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he volleyed his answer back to the Inspector. "Unless you have an ulterior motive to your visit that involves my previous association with a notorious drug lord."

Jackson tilted his head to the right and appeared to be contemplating his next move. He tried to appear relaxed by resting his hands on the table as if they were two old friends catching up.

"Lestrade mentioned you could be arrogant," Jackson commented offhandedly.

Sherlock dropped his hands from his chin, and unsuccessfully hid the smirk that was blooming on his face. He was quite certain Lestrade's phrasing had been slightly more colorful than that.

"The short answer is this. We aren't making any progress," Jackson began explaining to Sherlock. "The only way to get real results is by sending someone inside. We need someone reliable, one of us, to get the kind of hard evidence we'll need." He was confident. _Too confident_ , Sherlock thought.

"Because that worked so well for your last undercover officer?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms and leaning his chair back so that only the back two legs remained on the floor.

Jackson's whole posture immediately tensed, with clenched fists, and rigid shoulders. Interesting. His olive skin even took on a red flush to it. Very interesting. Sherlock would have thought a display of such emotions should have been above such a senior officer.

"Yes, well, you're no officer." The man's carotid artery let out a couple of more visible pulses before Jackson seemed to get control of his emotions again. "You already have a relationship with Volkov, and you already know the ins and outs of the organization. You are the perfect candidate."

"You seem to have forgotten that I've been out of said organization for almost two months. That will no doubt have gotten Volkov's attention. You can be assured that for me to reappear out of the blue will raise some red flags."

"We will come up with a viable story," Jackson answered with a wave of his hand like he was swatting away a fly.

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at the Inspector's relaxed attitude, "Volkov is no idiot. He hasn't gotten to where he is by accepting things at face value."

Jackson crossed his arms back on top of the table to lean in across the table towards Sherlock and gave him a snarl.

"I'm not someone that takes no for an answer easily."

Sherlock firmly planted his chair back on all four feet. Something was behind the impatient, hungry desire to get someone back in Volkov's circle.

"What is so important about this case that you would risk the life of a minor?" Sherlock began to pull at the nagging thread that was in front of him. "Cases like these can last months. Infiltrating the organization, building cases to make sure every T is crossed and every I is dotted. You, however, are stressing after a mere week."

"I don't expect a drug addict to understand." Jackson's posture remained much the same, but his voice had taken on a slightly menacing tone.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze on the older man. What was supposedly the biggest motivator in the world?

"You're probably right. I fear you are letting your emotions get the better of you, Inspector." If he was right, this would just make Jackson all the more boring.

"Emotions have nothing to do with this," Jackson started. He obviously wasn't expecting Sherlock to put up this much of an argument with him. "One of the largest drug rings London has ever seen is within our reach. That is the mission. The quicker we take him out, the better." He finished with a slam of his hands on the table between them.

The two garnered a few odd glances from others attending the weekly family day. Outbursts weren't uncommon on this day, so Sherlock doubted that they would be interrupted.

"Drugs have nothing to do with this, Inspector. This is entirely about revenge." Sherlock tried to keep his tone even, and his body posture still and collected while taking on the older man.

Jackson raised an eyebrow at the accusation, "Lestrade said you were smart. Explain it to me then."

"Simple," Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Revenge for your fallen comrade."

Jackson let out a short chuckle, "Obviously, the Yard has somewhat of a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to the murder of a fellow officer." So far, he appeared to be less than impressed with Sherlock's deductive skills.

"I do not doubt that Scotland Yard is protective over their own. You lot are supposed to have some type of brotherhood or something," Sherlock waved his hand and scrunched his nose up before leveling his expression back out to look Jackson square in the eyes. "Him being your secret lover, I'm sure has affected your judgment as well."

Jackson's expression turned deadly, "Just what do you think you are talking about?" His face was getting redder as the seconds ticked past.

"The undercover officer. The one that has set off this needless charge into things you are not prepared for," Sherlock began to fill in the blanks. "You were having an affair with him- quite a long one at that. Shame, you can't broadcast your feelings. Probably be a little weird to the wife and kids." Sherlock finished staring slightly off of center and stroking his chin.

"You don't know what you're talking about, boy." Jackson fumed.

Sherlock smirked at the now fuming detective, "It's really very obvious. How your wife hasn't discovered it after all these years, I don't know. Did you start the affair while you were still in the military?" Sherlock was taunting Jackson at this point.

Jackson had become so tense, and his hands scrunched into such tight fists, that Sherlock anticipated him to explode at any point.

"You are _no one_ ," Jackson whispered angrily. "No one will miss you if you don't come home. You don't have the upper hand here. _I do_." He finished with a point to his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the threat, "Clearly, _I do_. As you're the one that needs me to infiltrate Volkov's ring."

Jackson gave him a smirk.

"You're right. I mean, you are the most logical choice. But you're not the only choice. Why I'm sure if given the option, Lestrade would be happy to take your place." Jackson paused for a moment to tilt his head. "In fact, I would put money on it. He's been fighting so hard to keep you out of everything. He would jump at the opportunity."

Sherlock felt his heart stutter momentarily.

Deep breath in.

Hold it...

Deep breath out.

_Not Lestrade._

"Now that I think about it, you could just fill Lestrade in on the details. I'm sure he'd be fine," Jackson paused to level a look at Sherlock. "It'd be a shame if Volkov got a tip that he was a cop though," Sherlock felt as if all the blood had left his body, and Jackson knew instantly that he had won.

_Not Lestrade._

"I'll do it," Sherlock replied quickly. He was not willing to risk the only person to give him a chance; the only person who believed in him.

Jackson's smile slipped into one bordering on cynical, "Good answer."

"Under some provisions," Sherlock steepled his fingers back under his chin. This would need to be played just right. Lestrade needed to stay out of this.

Jackson raised a questioning eyebrow, "Like?"

_Not Lestrade._

If Sherlock could find a way to wipe the pretentious smirk off of Jackson's face, he would.

"I get a week out of rehab before I go back in," Sherlock started, "and Lestrade has no say in the final plans. Those will be between you and me. _And_ you will take my suggestions into account. I am the one with the experience, after all. Finally, once this is over, Lestrade goes back to homicide."

"I had no intention of keeping him," Jackson replied. "However, I'd like you back in the field sooner if possible."

"It's going to take at least a week to get your little mission underway," Sherlock shot back.

Jackson just shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock decided that it was likely that he had everything in place ready to go. He just required the proper bait.

"So, do we have an agreement?" Jackson asked and stretched his hand across the table towards Sherlock.

Lestrade was going to murder him. Sherlock needed to do this to repay the man, to protect him, to show that Sherlock held some value. Sherlock met his hand halfway in a firm shake.

"Yes." Sherlock grimaced at the firm grip that was Jackson's response.

"Perfect. Glad we see eye to eye on things," Jackson replied smugly. "I'll have you out of here by tomorrow evening, just need a day to get the papers in order. I'll even let Lestrade come pick you up himself." Jackson acted like that was such a big win for Sherlock. He doubted Lestrade would have anyone else do it. "Let you two have some time to bond until it's time to send you back in. I'll want you working your way back to Volkov by next weekend at the latest."

A familiar shock of greying hair grabbed Sherlock's attention. He tried to prepare himself for what was to come.

Sherlock nodded to Jackson, but his eyes were on the police Sergeant that was angrily marching towards the table. Sherlock squared his shoulders, prepared for battle.

"Hi, lads. Have a nice chat?" At last, it seemed hat Lestrade had finished with whatever mundane assignment Jackson had sent him on, and finally appeared at the table. He was apparently only now finding out that whatever Jackson had him do today was meaningless.

In Lestrade's fury, it appeared that he missed the subtle wink that Jackson had sent him. Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade. How was he going to explain this to the man that he owed everything to?

Lestrade seemed too angry at the moment to care, and shot him a look that highly suggested that Sherlock keep his smart mouth shut.

"Ah, Lestrade, good timing," Jackson greeted, and with a final, smooth look at Sherlock, he got up from his chair to greet Lestrade. "I was just leaving. Sherlock, it was nice to meet you. It seems Lestrade wasn't exaggerating about your intelligence. I'll be in touch."

Sherlock nodded at Jackson and tried not to flinch at the angry look he was receiving from Lestrade.

"I'll walk you out," Lestrade told Jackson before glowering at Sherlock. A look that said to _stay put, and I'll deal with you next_.

Lestrade would be back for him. That Sherlock was sure of. What he was unsure of was how he would explain himself at that point.

Sherlock had been too frozen in fear to realize that the two older men had been out of earshot, and visual range for quite some time.

Deep breath in.

Hold it...

Deep breath out.

He closed his eyes and clenched and relaxed his fists multiple times, trying to find his center using the meditation techniques that Julie had taught him over the last week. Nothing seemed to be working at the moment, and Sherlock slammed his fists on the table in defeat. He wouldn't be able to find any calmness until he found Lestrade. Surely the two men were done arguing about him by now.

He got up from his spot at the table and wiped his now sweaty palms off on the side of his shirt and went in search of Lestrade. He felt like a zombie as he trudged his way to the lobby. Maybe the zombie term was an incorrect comparison. Small. He felt small, walking up towards the lobby.

Lestrade was on his phone and frantically pacing the small lobby. The typical Sunday receptionist gave him a questioning look when he made his way closer to Lestrade. He just frowned in response. There was nothing that would calm the man down at this point.

"Yeah, I just can't believe Jackson would do something like this. Not only is it unprofessional, but it has to break at least a hundred rules of some kind," Lestrade protested into his phone as his frantic pacing continued.

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by the elbow, seemingly breaking the man out of his angry trance.

Once Lestrade realized it was Sherlock at his side, he let out a sigh and grabbed onto Sherlock's shoulder.

"Thanks. I really appreciate it. I need to talk to Sherlock, but call me as soon as you know anything," Lestrade told the unknown person on the other end of the phone call. He closed his eyes and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder a little harder. "Yeah, I'll stay in touch, too. Bye."

"Lestrade," Sherlock tried to start and was cut off by the other man.

"Don't," Lestrade stopped him, still unable to open his eyes.

The two stood there in silence by the front doors for several minutes. Sherlock looked back to the blonde receptionist. She gave him a sympathetic look, followed by her mouthing, "Do you need anything?"

Sherlock shook his head in response and then brought his attention back to Lestrade.

"Lestrade," Sherlock began again, and this time it didn't appear that he would be interrupted. "I know this wasn't your plan,"

Lestrade's eyes opened in a blaze of anger.

"Wasn't my plan?" Came the whispered question. Sherlock would later look back that this was merely the calm before the storm. "You're damn right this wasn't my plan!" Lestrade yelled loudly, drawing stares from anyone in a kilometer vicinity if Sherlock had to take a guess.

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade and pushed him towards the hall that led towards the living quarters of the rehab facility. He did not want to have this conversation in such a public place. Lestrade seemed to take the hint and marched in the direction towards Sherlock's room. Lestrade's shoulders seemed to be wound tightly, to the point of being painful. That feeling of smallness came back as they made their way down the hall.

Lestrade let himself into Sherlock's room and once again continued his frantic pacing. Sherlock gently closed the door to the outside, leaving the two of them alone. Sherlock brought an uncertain hand up to his mouth unsure of how to proceed with Lestrade. He had to tamp down his old childish habit of chewing on his nails that he used to do when he was agitated or anxious. Deep down, Sherlock knew the only thing that would bring the man back to a reasonable level of sanity would be for Sherlock to tell him it was all a joke, and he wasn't going anywhere.

"What'd you do?" Lestrade spat out, "call him up and say 'Hey, you know what would really make Greg angry?'" Lestrade's hands were waving like a mad man, and his frantic pacing continued in the small room.

Sherlock stayed by the door, "That's not how it went," he tried to explain to the very angry Lestrade.

"Oh?" Lestrade stopped at the opposite end of the room from Sherlock to glare at him. "Then please, explain it to me. Explain to me why you agreed to Jackson's insane plan!" Lestrade shouted.

Lestrade was still in his typical work clothes, a white button-down with a pair of grey slacks. The shirt had been wrinkled from his assignment today. It only added to his broken, angry look, that was rapidly turning into a look of defeat.

"Not two or three days ago, you were agreeing that going back to Volkov wouldn't be the best decision," Lestrade's look was pleading with him to make sense of it all.

"Jackson came to me. We both know he put you on some feeble excuse for a task to keep you occupied so he could come to me without you hovering," Sherlock started to explain to Lestrade, who just placed his hands on his hips and nodded at him to continue. "He has a plan. I know it's not what you wanted, but if you want this case to close in a timely fashion, you need me," Sherlock tried to convince him.

Lestrade shook his head, disagreeing with what he heard, "Sherlock, this is insane! Can't you see that?! What adult in their right mind would willingly place a kid into harm's way?" He finished exasperated with Sherlock.

Sherlock walked closer to Lestrade, "I know what I'm doing," he tried to argue.

Lestrade's hand flew off his hips and into the air in between them, "Sherlock, you could DIE!"

As the two of them squared off, the small room became still and quiet much like the eye of a hurricane, and Sherlock could feel the hair on his arms stand up as if he was standing close to an electrical current. Yes, he could die. But Sherlock had accepted that fact when he first woke up in a drug den all alone, in his new city of London that he hadn't learned yet. Death was just a part of life... but he owed it to the man before him that gave him a second chance at life.

_Not Lestrade._

"Look," Lestrade started once he had taken a few calming breaths. "I know you think you are doing the right thing. I'm sure that Jackson spun his plan to sound like you were doing something noble or some rot like that. But this is not okay. I don't care what you may think. It's not okay. And I'm going to stop it," he finished with a more determined ring to it.

"How do you plan on managing that?" Sherlock asked, scrunching up his nose, trying to figure out where Lestrade was going with this. "Jackson already has it worked out. He just needs to push the papers through tomorrow."

"That phone call earlier," Lestrade started, his expression beginning to change from one of dread to one of excitement. I was on the phone with my old DI, Littleton. She knows people in child welfare. She fostered kids for years."

"What good is that going to do?" Sherlock prodded, beginning to feel uneasy as he was unsure as to where Lestrade was taking this.

"Jackson said that one of the biggest reasons he was able to get to you is because you have no guardian. So I'm going to fix that," Lestrade looked as if he was the cat that ate the canary, but Sherlock frowned at the Sergeant's train of thought.

"You already know that I don't want to get my parents involved," Sherlock replied flatly.

Lestrade shook his head, "Right, no, _I_ would be your guardian."

Sherlock felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He continued to stare at Lestrade as if the man had grown a second head. When he still felt like he couldn't catch his breath, he moved to sit down on the edge of the bed.

"What?" Lestrade asked, confused at Sherlock's response to his bombshell statement.

Sherlock placed his hands on his knees and continued to stare at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning.

"Listen to what you are saying, Lestrade," Sherlock whispered. He was unable to look at the man standing before him.

"I am listening, Sherlock. What Jackson is trying to make you do isn't right-"

"No," Sherlock cut in.

Lestrade shook his head, confused by Sherlock's discord, "No? Sherlock, you don't get a say in this. You are a minor-"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to get angry. He shot up from his position at the end of the bed and squared off again with Lestrade.

"So, you just get to swoop in and save the day?" Sherlock started in on the older man, feeling his anger simmering just under the surface. "Oh, poor Sherlock, he's just a kid. He doesn't know any better." Sherlock ran an agitated hand through his hair. He could feel his control slipping.

"Sherlock, you know that's not what I mean." Lestrade looked dumbfounded that Sherlock was taking this poorly. He tried to take a step forward, but Sherlock stopped him with a raise of his hand.

"I have been in the trenches. I have put myself in these situations in the past. You are treating me as if I were some kind of stray dog that you can just take ownership of, and it will magically make everything better. That by doing this, you will just make me into your perfect puppet!"

"That's not true." Lestrade shook his head frantically.

"It is! It is. Jackson has done so, and now you are trying your hand, and I'm done." Sherlock spat out.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade tried to start but was quickly stopped by Sherlock.

"No!" Sherlock yelled back.

"I- Sherlock, I'm just trying to help." Lestrade pleaded with him.

"Believe me, Lestrade, nothing made me. I made me. I get control over my life."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I guess I just don't understand. I thought this would be something that you would want."

"You didn't ask," Sherlock had to take a deep breath to get control of his emotions. Tears threatened to spill over, and Sherlock would not give Lestrade the upper hand. "I haven't ever had anyone willing to be there in that type of way, even when I had my parents. And if you would have asked me, I would have thought about it, but I would have wanted you to _want_ to. If you had asked, I would have told you that I didn't you to be forced, pressured, or felt like I was some kind of obligation for you to fulfill," Sherlock replied quietly.

The two stared at each other with various levels of anger and sadness, all combined into one. Lestrade kept opening his mouth, but Sherlock didn't need to hear whatever he had to say.

"Sherlock," Lestrade finally got out, only to be cut off by Sherlock again.

"Get out," Sherlock growled.

"Kid," Lestrade's eyes pleaded, but Sherlock shook his head.

Sherlock held firm in his decision. He felt his heart clench as Lestrade appeared to be having some kind of internal debate, probably trying to come up with an argument to get Sherlock to stay. He let out a sigh, realizing that he had lost this argument. He gave a final firm slap to Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock followed him to the door, and once the Sergeant had crossed the threshold, he slammed the door behind him. He turned and rested his back against the door and slammed the back of his head against it. This time he let the tears flow freely.

Deep breath in.

Hold it...

Deep breath out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter. These two boys... They better get it together pretty soon. As always, all my love for my beta, Hucklebarry. I hope everyone enjoys the next installment!

**Chapter 10**

Greg sat in the corner booth of a small cafe holding his tea, which was growing colder by the minute. His restless leg was slightly bouncing, making the table rattle slightly. He kept an eye on the door for the social worker he was supposed to be meeting with soon. He only hoped that he had somehow managed to look presentable and like he had his life together, despite how he was feeling at the moment. A tie usually helped make him look a little more professional, now it just seemed too tight and constricting.

It had seemed that while Littleton was no-nonsense at work when it involved family, she made you reconsider your whole opinion about her. Once he had called her yesterday afternoon in his panic that Sherlock had agreed to Jackson's plan, she had immediately gone to work contacting some of her former friends and contacts in Child Services. By the time he had gotten home from his disastrous meeting with Sherlock, she had already pulled some strings and had a meeting lined up for him to meet someone to discuss an emergency guardianship until something more official could be determined. Only after his meeting with Sherlock, that had gone so horribly _wrong_ , he couldn't find it in him to be as excited as he thought he would be.

Greg had stayed in his car in the parking lot of Springhill for at least an hour after leaving Sherlock's room. He had spent the time debating whether or not to go back to Sherlock's room and try to work through this with him. He kicked himself for being so hasty to jump to something like a guardianship. He should have consulted Sherlock. In hindsight, springing something like this big on the kid was maybe not the right call. However, they had, albeit briefly, discussed Sherlock staying with him after rehab. He shouldn't have been _that_ surprised when Greg had tried to put that plan into action. A phone call from only last week with Sherlock sprung to mind, _and god had it only been last week?_

_"I'm either in or I'm out."_

_"Mmm, I suppose I'll allow you in."_

Eventually, he decided to head home and try to calm down with a glass or two of scotch. Now, after a few hours of poor sleep left him feeling restless, and anxious, he feared that everything he had been hoping for would come crashing down around him.

The bell over the cafe's door chimed, and Greg made his leg stop bouncing to glance up to see if it was the woman he was supposed to meet, but the person found another table with a couple of friends. He angrily sopped up some of his tea that had sloshed out from the cup that his abrupt fidgeting had caused.

He supposed that he should be thankful that Jackson had given him the day off. On top of being exhausted and mildly hungover, Greg was quite certain that he would have punched the arrogant DI in the face. Jackson had called him and instructed him to take the day, stating that Greg would need time to get things ready for Sherlock to stay with him for a few days. Jackson had said he would call when Sherlock was cleared to be picked up from rehab once all the paperwork was finalized. Thankfully his one-bedroom flat was easy to pick up. He had already gotten the kid some extra clothes and blankets for the couch that he would have to deal with for the time being. The morning off ended up doing nothing to help his anxiety over the situation, and his thoughts constantly played him and Sherlock's interactions on repeat. Feeling guilty, he ended up calling Julie before he left for his meeting to give her a heads up on the situation. She had been especially displeased but promised that she would go check on Sherlock if he didn't show for his usual session. He hadn't heard from her so he assumed everything was alright. He certainly hoped everything was alright.

Maybe Sherlock just needed the night to process the information. At the very least maybe he had cooled down and would entertain the idea of speaking with him about the subject.

"Gregory Lestrade?"

Greg jumped at the man's voice that had startled him from his thoughts. He leaped up from his booth and tried to smooth his clothes. In front of him was a younger man with dark brown hair and sharp eyes. He was dressed in a crisp three-piece suit complete with a pocket square. The new person was grasping a small folder in one hand, with an umbrella in the other.

"Yes, sorry," Greg stumbled out and reached his hand towards the man. "You must be with Child Services."

The man returned his handshake while giving him a quick once over. Suddenly Greg found himself glad he went for the tie.

"Sorry I wasn't paying much attention. I had actually been expecting a woman named Gretta," Greg tried to fill the silence nervously.

"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll be meeting with Gretta later on. Consider this more of a pre-interview. Can't be too careful with those who offer to take on seemingly unwanted children," the social worker informed him. The smile that he gave Greg made him more anxious than at ease. He dropped the man's hand and took a step back, eager to reassure himself that the walls of the small cafe were staying firmly in place. Now was _not_ the time for an anxiety attack.

"Nice to meet you," Greg greeted him hesitantly. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

The man gave him a small flat smile, "Please."

"Right, back in a tick," Greg motioned him to have a seat in the spot across from his and went off to get a fresh cuppa for the social worker.

Suddenly he became very nervous, while he waited in the small queue. The walls were slowly closing in. This was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for, he could not afford to screw this up. If he did, Sherlock would end up god knows where, and that thought gnawed in the pit of Greg's stomach. He wasn't willing to give up on him just yet. Greg looked back towards the younger man, he had an intimidating air about him. His stomach clenched when he saw the small stack of papers the man was already going through, preparing for their meeting. The young girl working behind the counter passed him his tea and he went back to the table.

Greg held his head high and put a smile on his face. It was now or never.

* * *

Soft knocking roused Sherlock from his own thoughts. He had to glance around to get his bearings, and realized he had slid to the floor at some point after Lestrade left last night, and was leaning with his back against the door to his room. He glanced up and was surprised to see sunlight streaming through the curtains, bringing a certain cheery brightness that Sherlock found disconcerting. Evidently, he hadn't moved the rest of the evening.

"Sherlock?" Julie's questioning voice was muffled through the door.

Sherlock was mentally and physically exhausted. He had cried himself into a stupor, and the call for something to inject into him to take the pain away had become so great that he remained trapped in his thoughts.

Had he done the right thing? Should he have gone after Lestrade? Did he ruin everything?

Lestrade had looked so defeated when he left last night. Sherlock knew he had hurt the man's feelings. Still, Sherlock felt wronged too. Having such a large decision taken away from him by Lestrade still angered him.

"Sherlock?" Julie's voice came through again, and Sherlock got up from his spot on the floor. Julie wouldn't leave until he opened the door. Even if he didn't open the door, she would find a way to get in anyway.

Sherlock knew he must look wrecked. He could feel his hair that was on the back of his head was standing up straight from being against the door all night. He was sure his eyes must look red and bloodshot from all of his crying last night and by how dry and puffy they felt.

It was no use wallowing. What's done is done.

He slowly opened the door to Julie. As always, Julie was able to deal with this new emotional swing with her normal grace.

"You missed your session with me this morning. When Greg called me this morning to fill me in on what happened yesterday, I thought I would come to check in on you," Julie jumped straight to the point. It was a trait Sherlock approved of, for the most part.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Of course, he called you," he spat out. Surely, Lestrade was trying to force Julie on his side.

"He's just worried about you, Sherlock, and so am I."

"Thank you for your concern, but it is no longer needed. It seems you've already been informed of my release later today," Sherlock informed her, passively. He remained firmly in place, not willing to allow her inside of his room just yet. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could remain neutral about the situation.

"I was hoping to hear _your_ version of events," she prodded him patiently.

She was wearing a dress like normal, this time a deep purple one with a black cardigan over it. Her shoulder-length dark brunette hair had been done with some curls added to it today. Her make up was done with more attention to detail than usual, with eyeliner, which was not usual for her.

"You have a date tonight," he deduced.

This time it was Julie's turn to roll her eyes, "Sherlock, what have I said about misdirecting people when they are trying to connect with you?"

He gave out a frustrated huff and opened the door fully to invite her into his room.

"So, what has Lestrade told you already?" He asked, feeling his anger begin to simmer again. He leaned against the threshold that leads into his ensuite bathroom waiting for her answer.

"Not much, honestly," she added when Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that you've agreed to something that he doesn't agree with, and I can't say that I blame him for that."

"I've agreed to go back to Volkov for the police," in informed her honestly. Quite frankly, he was surprised Lestrade hadn't called her and told her all the sordid details and had her bust his door down last night.

Julie crossed her arms in front of her and gave a disappointed look towards him, "Sherlock-"

"Don't," Sherlock stopped her. "Just don't. I had enough of that from Lestrade last night," he finished defeated.

"I'm sure you did," Julie insisted. "He cares about you," Julie defended on behalf of Lestrade. Typical.

Sherlock let out a snort, shoving off the door frame with an eye roll, and headed to his closet and grabbed the gym back that Lestrade had let him borrow to transport his clothes (that Lestrade had bought for him) onto his bed.

"Oh, you suddenly think he doesn't?" Sherlock could hear the sarcasm behind her words.

"I don't want to get into this right now," he told her point-blank, while he tried to busy himself with packing.

"Well, I think you should," she argued.

Sherlock turned to glare at her. He didn't have time for this. He hadn't realized that he had wasted most of the morning already before Julie came round to his room.

"I don't have time. I need to shower and pack. Les-" Sherlock cut himself off and winced. "Someone will be here to pick me up later," he finished quietly.

Would Lestrade still come for him? Or had he blown that now too?

"Well, I agree about the shower. The packing won't take you much time. If I remember from when we admitted you, you barely came with enough clothes to fill that bag," she reminded him, pointing to the gym bag that remained empty on the bed. "So let's just say we can meet in thirty minutes?" She gave him a small smile before quickly exiting the room, not giving him much of a chance to argue.

Once Sherlock was alone with his own thoughts again he flopped himself, rather ungracefully, onto the bed. He pushed his face into his pillow and growled. What was _everything_ out of his control? Suddenly, he found himself wishing that he had never stayed and waited for Lestrade at that damned park bench. If he hadn't, he'd still be on his own. He'd be in _control_.

Only, he couldn't quite make himself truly believe that.

* * *

"Here ya go," Greg placed the cup on the table before taking his own seat. "I don't know how you take it so I got you a couple of packets of sugar and some milk you can add to it.

"Thank you, Mr. Lestrade," the social worker replied politely, before turning his attention completely to Greg. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get started. If I am to understand correctly, you are intending to get approval for emergency guardianship over an individual who has somehow been able to evade the system?"

"Right," Greg nodded and pulled his notepad from his breast pocket, flipping the pages to the back. "So I guess you want to know all the usual stuff then?"

"Actually, I've already done a little research about you myself, Sergeant Lestrade," the man replied and Greg raised his eyebrows. "You joined Scotland Yard after you finished at university. You excelled as a police officer from the beginning and rose the ranks rather quickly. You now hold the rank of Sergeant, but the title of Detective Inspector is not far beyond your reach. You married your college sweetheart, but it looks like unfortunately, that has fizzled out," the stranger took a sip of his tea, and Greg could feel himself having to refrain from grinding his teeth.

"As far as financially situated, you seem to have a modest savings account," the man continued and flipped through a small stack of papers. _Wait, were those his bank statements?_ "You are money conscious, but not frugal enough to cut coupons. Lastly, for some strange reason, you've taken an interest in an outcast fifteen-year-old with a drug problem. Now, why might that be?" The man finished, leaning back into the booth with a smug look on his face.

Greg was not as prepared for this inquisition as he thought and scrambled so that the interviewer wouldn't think he was a complete idiot. He tugged at the neckline of his collar, wishing that he could loosen it just a bit.

"Man, you guys are thorough," Greg tried to joke, but it came out more nervous than he would have liked. He took a sip of tea to wet his throat before continuing. "No, my marriage didn't work out, but we tried to make it work," Greg tried to convince the man. "I wasn't ready to give up after ten years together. We went to counseling and I thought that we were going to make it out on the other side, but here we are," he shrugged. "I do enjoy my work at the Yard though. It won't make me rich, but I didn't have a lot growing up, so I just try to be careful." The guy seated across from him was hard to read, and reading people is something that Greg did for a living.

"As far as Sherlock goes," Greg took a moment to get his thoughts organized. "He's a great kid. Someday, he'll even be a good one. He just needs a little help," Greg said with a shrug. "He's not perfect, but then no one is. I put him into rehab to try and get him cleaned up, and I hope you can help make sure he stays there. This mission that Jackson wants him to do," Greg trailed off and shook his head, getting worked up wasn't going to help. "And I'm going to make sure he finishes school. A genius like him, there is no excuse not to," Greg only hoped that he would have an easy time convincing Sherlock of that.

"I've only known the kid for a couple of months. I don't even know his last name," Greg chuckled. "But I do know that if given a chance he can be amazing. Sherlock deserves that chance," Greg finished passionately.

All the cards were on the table now. Greg tried to appear calm on the outside when it was the opposite of how he was actually feeling. The social worker was silent for several minutes as he took his time to scrutinize every millimeter of him. Greg found himself hopeful that Child Services tried to send intimidating people for their pre-interviews and everything else would go a little easier. At this rate, he was going to sweat through his shirt and need a change of clothes.

"What if he is prone to temper tantrums?" The man questioned.

"Lestrade let out a laugh but righted himself quickly when he noticed the man give him a raise of his eyebrow.

"Yeah, sorry, he is," Lestrade attempted to explain, "prone to temper tantrums that is," he filled in. "That's just kind of Sherlock though," he finished with a shrug of his shoulders.

"And what will you do when you tire of his antics, of his cavalier attitude," the man across from him asked. "What happens when he relapses?"

Lestrade frowned at the man across from him, he would have been lying if he had been so ignorant as to have ignored that question himself.

"I won't lie, I'm worried about that. I don't live in a fairy tale world, I know that him relapsing is a very real probability," Greg started, "but I've had some time to think about the future, and I don't know what I will do if that day comes. What I can tell you is that I will always provide a place for Sherlock. No matter where he ends up, he will have a home."

"Such words of permanence for someone that barely knows this boy."

"I know this seems sudden, and probably a little suspicious. But there is nothing untoward going on. Have you ever just connected with someone?" Greg asked the man. "I don't know Sherlock's past, and it honestly doesn't matter to me. What I care about is his future. He just needs a little guidance. I want to help him get there."

Finally, the man gave a small frown and grabbed his umbrella from its place propped next to the small booth they were at.

"I'll make sure that you needn't concern yourself with any further red tape," the social worker said as he rose from his seat and gathered his folder back together. "I do believe that you will be good for him," he finished, ending on a sad smile.

Greg looked up at him surprised.

"Wait..." Lestrade frowned, a look of confusion swept over his face. "That's it?" he tried to ask and got up from his side of the booth to go after him.

The other man let out a small sigh and switched his umbrella to his other arm, "Keep your meeting that you had planned today. I'll be sure that everything is approved immediately."

"You can do that?" Greg asked him, surprised.

The man gave him a smug smile before heading towards the exit.

"Wait!" Greg called out, and the man in the dress suit paused and turned back towards him. "I don't think I caught your name."

The mysterious new person gave him a small smile, "Just consider me an interested party, Sergeant Lestrade," he told him vaguely before leaving the small cafe entirely.

* * *

Sherlock was unable to drag himself out of bed. The pressure of everything was mounted to an unbearable level. Julie, Lestrade, Jackson... It was all beginning to feel like too much weight on his shoulders. He didn't want to think about Lestrade right now. There would be plenty of time to deal with Lestrade and whatever repercussions there may be later.

He glanced at the clock on his nightstand and groaned when he saw the time. He'd spent more time lolling about than he realized. Julie would be expecting him soon. With one last groan into his pillow, he got up to shower and change clothes before heading towards Julie's office.

The trip towards his therapist's office seemed to take longer than usual. Interesting how one's perception of time had a direct correlation to how it seemed to affect a person. Maybe there would be a way to devise an experiment around the concept. For now, though, he had other concerns to deal with. Sherlock paused at the doors to Julie's office and took a deep centering breath to prepare himself for what was to come.

"In or out," Sherlock stated as he walked through her office doors. He went towards his normal chair and managed to fold his long legs up to rest his chin on them.

"In or out?" Julie asked from her desk. She was finishing notes on one of her other patients, then she put the pad of paper away and gave him her full attention. "Who or what is in or out?"

"Lestrade mentioned that he was either in, or he was out," Sherlock filled her in.

Julie nodded her understanding and leaned back into her chair as she waited for him to continue.

We were discussing future plans," Sherlock continued on. "I hadn't actually talked to him about staying with him when I told you that was the plan," he admitted with a frown.

"Ah," Julie nodded in understanding, "and how did Lestrade handle that information?" Julie asked as she fiddled with her pen.

Sherlock rested his cheek on the top of his knees, while he chewed on his bottom lip, "He wanted in," he mumbled.

"And how did that make you feel?"

Sherlock shot her a glare, "Could you be more predictable?" he asked, clearly disappointed with her line of questioning.

Julie shook her head and gave him a sad smile.

"What?" Sherlock asked bewildered at her response.

"Feelings, Sherlock, just a reminder that you have them," she started, "you have a right to have positive or negative feelings one way or another."

"Good," replied Sherlock angrily. "Does that make you feel better? It made me feel good to realize that someone could be a permanent fixture in my life" Sherlock finished angrily, hugging his knees tighter to his body to protect him.

"So not a week ago you were fine with Lestrade being permanently attached to you?"

Sherlock frowned. That was beside the point.

"How many attachments to other human beings have you been able to make in your life before you met Lestrade?" Julie asked him seriously. "Your mother? Father? Brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the line of irrelevant questioning, "Lestrade brings me cases. He just wants to keep my mind occupied. Keeps me off the drugs," he finished sarcastically.

Julie shook her head, "You're wrong."

Sherlock snorted at her answer, "I have it on very good authority that police officers don't take kindly to drug offenders."

"it's more than that and you know it," she argued, pointing her pen in his direction.

"He's only doing this because of some misguided notion-" Sherlock tried to start, but found himself interrupted by a very angry therapist.

"Bullocks!" Julie interrupted.

Sherlock looked startled at her frankness, "I'm sorry?" he asked for clarification.

"You heard me. That rot you're spewing is bollocks and you know it," she finished with a look. Gone was the elegant, calm, sculpted accent. Julie was letting just a little bit of her previous cockney accent through. "You aren't my patient anymore, so I have the opportunity to be a little more honest with you than I normally would. That, and it sometimes takes a little more to get things through your thick skull," she stared at him pointedly.

Sherlock let his legs fall to the floor below with a thump, and slouched back in his chair like the petulant teenager he was.

"Lestrade has spent _two months_ taking care of you. Supporting you! I've seen families that have been together for years give up on their loved ones after that long in rehab. In the big picture, I know that is just the blink of an eye. But in that small amount of time, I've seen the two of you really work on becoming a solid family unit."

Sherlock flinched at the word _family_.

"I know, Sherlock. I know this is all hard and that you are dealing with so much. Given your options, however, I don't know about you, but personally, I would pick the family that wanted me. I would pick the family that has seen my flaws, seen me at my worst, and still want me. The other option is the family that cuts off communication and casts you out when you are down, somehow, that doesn't seem quite as appealing."

Sherlock closed his eyes. This was why he didn't do _feelings_.

"Fine, tell me this then, Sherlock," Julie asked, grabbing his attention back to her. "Do you honestly believe that Lestrade meant anything malicious by pushing this guardianship through?" she asked, with a final click of her pen.

"It's not that I am worried about Lestrade as a potential guardian," Sherlock tried to start but was immediately cut off by Julie.

"Then what is the problem?!" she yelled. Sherlock made his teeth clatter due to making his mouth close shut so fast, completely startled by Julie's volume.

"The problem is that he took that choice away from me," Sherlock tried to argue with her.

"The choice that you two had already discussed?"

"That was merely about us living together. It had nothing to do with owning me!"

"Listen to yourself, Sherlock," Julie started exasperated by where this was going. "Owning you," she spat out, disgusted with his response. "Tell me this," she readied herself for another volley of questions. "Don't think too hard, just tell me who comes to mind first," Sherlock nodded and she continued. "Out of everyone in your life, who do you feel the most comfortable with?"

"estrade."

"Who do you feel you can go to with your problems and be listened to for who _you_ are?"

"Lestrade."

Julie nodded and looked at him expectantly.

"Sherlock, it isn't that he's trying to take anything away from you. It's waking up in the morning and realizing that you've cast away the one person who ever gave a damn about you."

"Greg," Sherlock admitted softly, his voice filled with regret.

Julie continued to look at him, waiting for the reported lightbulb to turn on.

"And one last question," she paused to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. "What are you going to do if Lestrade doesn't get granted guardianship powers? What if child services decides to assign you to someone else, or you get put into an orphanage?"

"Julie," Sherlock began, picking at the hem that ran along his trousers. "I think I've made a mistake."

* * *

Greg frowned as he watched the stranger exits the front door with his umbrella tucked under his arm. _That was a bit strange_ , he thought to himself. The new person, the social worker, or whoever he was, left Greg with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Suddenly, Greg felt like he had more questions than answers about the whole Sherlock situation.

 _An interested party_ , Greg thought with a vexed expression. What was that even supposed to mean?

"I'm so sorry I'm late," a large, short woman who had to be in her fifties or sixties with a perfect updo came up in front of him, startling him from his thoughts, and reached out her hand towards Greg.

He grabbed it a little confused.

"I'm Gretta, Sandra Littleton's friend, with Child Services," she explained cheerfully. "I would have been here twenty minutes ago, but I couldn't get my car to start this morning and had to take the tube," she went on without waiting for Greg to catch up. "The blasted car had even just gone in for its regular servicing!"

"It's okay," Greg said, getting caught back up with the present. He needed to be ready for round two. "I actually just finished up with the pre-interview with one of your associates. You had to have passed him on the street. Nice suit, umbrella?"

Gretta looked at him confused and shook her head, "We don't do pre-interviews, dear."

Greg frowned at the admission. He _knew_ something was off with the bloke from before, but he had known things, and the bank statements, he was just thorough. He felt a light sweat break across his forehead.

"Are you sure?" he asked Gretta with a point towards the door. "That there wasn't another interviewer?"

Gretta nodded her assurances, "I'm positive. Why, the case was only assigned to me this morning, but I know Sandra pulled some strings yesterday to make this happen," she informed him with concerned eyes. "It seems this lad, Sherlock, was it? Had somehow managed to evade getting drug into the system before now. I was under the impression that only yourself and a handful of others were even aware of him."

Greg was beginning to doubt how anonymous Sherlock was after all.

 _Consider me an interested party_ , kept through his mind on repeat.

It seemed that Greg wasn't the only party interested in Sherlock's future. The walls tilted closer, and Greg had to clench his fists closed to fight the dread from building.

"Why don't I go get us both a fresh cuppa," Gretta suggested, "you look a bit peckish," and gave him a friendly pat to the shoulder. "Give us a little pick up before we get into all this paperwork," she placed the briefcase that she was holding down in the booth seat that was just vacated by the mysterious umbrella man, and headed for the countertop.

Greg turned to look back towards the door. So who did he just meet then?

* * *

Sherlock anxiously waited at the front desk with Julie. Lestrade had called and left word with the front desk that he would be arriving to collect Sherlock soon. He was grateful that Lestrade hadn't asked to speak with him directly. Sherlock wasn't sure he was ready to speak with him earlier. Now, the gnawing in his stomach was so bad he was just ready to get the confrontation over with. Sherlock was so tired of feeling like he was drowning. He was ready to accept the life preserver that Lestrade had thrown him. At least he hoped he was. Once Sherlock and Julie finished up their session, Sherlock only felt the pit in his stomach grow the longer they waited for Lestrade.

Lestrade walked in dressed in his normal work clothes, with an addition of a tie that seemed to have been loosened on the drive over. Sherlock thought he looked tired. estrade's face turned from one of nervousness to one that was flat and didn't give away what he was thinking. Julie gave him a reassuring stroke on his upper arm as if she were able to sense his discomfort.

Sherlock turned back to Julie for support when he felt her hand.

"Don't worry, I'll be in touch," she encouraged him forward with a gentle push towards Lestrade.

He met Lestrade halfway with the small backpack of his meager belongings. The feelings he had yesterday of being small had returned. Sherlock felt every bit of the small child returning home from running away (even if it was just to the end of the driveway). Lestrade's expression still wasn't giving anything away, which only added to Sherlock's discomfort.

"Hey," Greg started, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted, unable to look the older man in the eyes.

Both men greeted each other in unison. Greg chuckled and Sherlock gave a small smile at his shoes and took a final deep breath before bringing himself to look Lestrade in the eyes.

Greg looked at him with a look that Sherlock couldn't quite place.

"Listen, kid," Greg started, before stopping abruptly to wring his hands together. "I know you're still angry with me," Lestrade began, "but I'm not angry with you, Sherlock. I get it. We should have talked about this together, and I left you out of the conversation-"

Sherlock effectively cut Lestrade off by lunging forward to grab the man in front of him in a large bear hug. He relaxed marginally when he felt Lestrade return the embrace with equal enthusiasm.

"I'm in," Sherlock whispered quietly, yet firmly, into the Sergeant's ear. Lestrade tightened his hold around Sherlock's shoulders for another second before releasing him, and Sherlock followed suit as well.

"Let's go home, kid."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So sorry for the wait for the next chapter. This one fought with me a bit before I finally got it in the direction I wanted. Promise I won't make y'all wait that long before the next chapter goes up. As always, thanks to Hucklebarry, I couldn't do it without you. Also, thanks again to Jasmine for helping with the finer adjustments.
> 
> Enjoy :-)

**Chapter 11**

"Oi!" Greg yelled as he banged on the door to the bathroom. "We leave in ten!"

The squeaking of the knobs to the shower could be heard followed by the sound of the water turning off. Lestrade directed a frown towards the door and moved on to the kitchen. Grabbing two travel mugs from the cabinet, he filled them both up with coffee and set them on the kitchen table. He glared at the door to the bathroom, mentally willing Sherlock to hurry his morning routine. He was expected to be in a meeting with Jackson and a few other members of the narcotics team to discuss the Volkov case in oh, about fifteen minutes. Thankfully since Greg was bringing the guest of honor, he suspected he'd be let off easy for being tardy.

After leaving Springhill Rehab, Greg and Sherlock had a fairly quiet evening. They had settled on tacos from a restaurant between the rehab facility and his flat. They ate dinner in silence at the kitchen table. Then Greg showed him the new clothes he had purchased for him, hung up neatly in Hannah's vacated closet. Sherlock spent the rest of the evening tucked away on the couch, which would serve as his bed for the week, reading Greg's old paperback Stephen King novel, _The Shining_ , while Greg paid bills. All in all, it had been a peaceful evening. Greg assumed they were both too emotionally exhausted to deal with anything else that day, and that was fine. He was sure there would be multiple opportunities for emotions to be shared in the days leading up to Sherlock going back to Volkov.

Greg just hadn't anticipated how difficult waking Sherlock up in the morning would be.

"Sherlock!" he yelled from the kitchen table while he screwed the lids on to their to-go mugs.

The bathroom door finally opened, letting a cloud of steam from the shower enter into the living area. Sherlock exited the bathroom wearing the new pair of dark jeans, and a black button-down shirt Greg had got for him. He was delicately patting the wet curls on his head to dry them.

"Come on, your highness," Greg replied sarcastically to the kid in front of him. "We're late enough as it is," he told Sherlock, shoving a mug of coffee into his hand while simultaneously grabbing the towel from the kid and tossed it back into the bathroom.

Sherlock huffed but took a sip from the mug and went to put his shoes on.

Greg stood by the front door waiting on Sherlock to finish tying the laces of his new tennis shoes. The kid was still too skinny for his liking, but it seemed that the last couple of months in rehab had put some much needed weight on him. He no longer looked ill, just like a normal gangly teenager. A teenager he was getting ready to send back into a dangerous, drug-infested world that would more than likely end with Sherlock getting seriously injured or killed.

"What?" Sherlock snapped at him as he approached the front door.

"Not a morning person I see," Greg teased as he ushered them towards the elevator on his floor.

Sherlock grumbled something, unintelligible while drinking from the coffee mug. Greg decided to let it slide for now.

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open, inviting them inside. Lestrade kept giving Sherlock little worrying glances the whole ride down the lift and the walk to his car.

" _What?_ " Sherlock groaned as he slammed the passenger side door closed.

"Hm?" Lestrade hummed in question as he started up the car.

"You keep staring at me as if I'll disappear at any moment," Sherlock answered, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him. "It's annoying," he sounded perturbed.

"Really not a morning person. Noted," Greg remarked, making a check motion with his finger. Sherlock finally turned to glare at him. "It's nothing, just adapting is all," Greg grumbled. "You need a haircut," he deflected, pointing to the dark brown mop that was affixed to Sherlock's head.

Sherlock frowned and smoothed his hair down with his free hand. "It's fine," came the teen's sullen reply.

The remainder of the ride to the Yard the two kept their thoughts to themselves. Through the car stereo, a local rock station was playing on a low volume that helped fill in the silence. Sherlock kept his gaze out the window while sipping on his coffee. Greg, however, was running through a mental checklist of reasons why going along with Jackson's plan was a terrible idea. So far he'd come up with at least twenty-six reasons. Maybe he could convince Sherlock to go into witness protection to get out of this. Then again, it wasn't like the kid would agree to it, or that he wouldn't find his own trouble anyways.

Greg parked his car and checked the time, noting they were only fifteen minutes late. He shut the engine off but kept his hand on the key before turning to look at Sherlock.

"Oh, what now?" the kid asked him annoyed. "Weren't you the one moaning about us being late not twenty minutes ago?"

"Just listen to me for a second, Sherlock," Greg began, taking the key from the ignition and twisted in his seat to give Sherlock his full attention. "Just be careful, alright?" he pleaded with Sherlock. "I still don't like this, and I know that you are getting tired of hearing that, but it doesn't change how I feel. I won't like anything that we end up agreeing on if it still means sending you back to Volkov, you'll just have to deal with that. Just," he paused and rested his left hand on top of Sherlock's right shoulder. "Just remember that once you're back with Volkov that you don't belong there. That I won't care what you have to do to survive, just _promise_ me you'll get out of there and get back here. I'll be here on the other side, and I won't care what you've done. I just want you safe," he finished quietly.

Sherlock gave him a small smile and nodded his head.

"I'm not a morning person, and you are far too sentimental in the morning," Sherlock informed him with a quirk of his lips and quickly slid out of the passenger seat, shutting the door on his way out.

"Arese," Greg grunted before he followed Sherlock, and had to jog a little to catch up with the kid before they reached the entrance of the building.

Sherlock stayed close to his side as they made their way through the building. Greg had stopped at the front desk to grab a visitor's pass for Sherlock before heading to the lift that would take them to the narcotics team and the meeting that he had been dreading since the moment he learned about it. He gave friendly hellos to some friendly faces that looked on at Sherlock with intrigue.

Finally, they entered the narcotics floor and Greg caught the secretary's relieved expression.

"You're late," the secretary harped at him. "Inspector Jackson was contemplating whether or not a search team would be necessary."

"Yeah, sorry," Greg wasn't, and his tone reflected how he truly felt. He jabbed a thumb in Sherlock's direction. "Wasn't prepared for having to share a bathroom with a teenager in the morning," that part was true at least. The statement earned him a small smile from the receptionist and a frown following an eye-roll from Sherlock as they continued on towards the conference room.

Greg paused with his hand on the door to the conference room. Jackson's impatient gaze was glaring at him through the small rectangular window that was off to the side of the door. How was there anyway Greg would be able to prepare himself for what was to come? There was nothing he'd be able to do once Sherlock was back in Volkov's circle-

"I promise," Sherlock's voice startled him from his inner monologue.

"What are we promising?" Greg asked, trying to follow Sherlock's vague statement.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave him a pointed look.

"From what? All of five minutes ago? In the garage?" Sherlock refreshed his memory with an irritated glare. "I promise to do what it takes to get back here," he finished looking at the ground instead of at Greg. He looked embarrassed by the declaration if the tinge of pink on his cheeks had anything to say.

Lestrade gave him a small, thankful smile before opening the door that led them into the unknown. He held his head high and ushered Sherlock in after him. Lestrade could be strong for the both of them, he thought as he watched Sherlock shake hands with the various other members of the narcotics team. Greg put his hands in his pockets and met Jackson's eyes from across the room. Yeah, _I can be strong enough for the both of us_ , Lestrade thought to himself as he returned a sarcastic smirk to Jackson.

* * *

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as they were finally released from the conference room. Jackson had kept them locked in there until almost two pm. Jackson had made Sherlock do a majority of the talking. Sherlock went into specific details for the narcotics team about Volkov's hierarchy, the various locations of known bases across the city, distribution operations, the list seemed endless. Every time Sherlock would finish a subject, Jackson would continue to drill him, making sure that Sherlock left no stone unturned. He turned his head from side to side, stretching until he heard a satisfying crack.

Lestrade exited the conference room, not even trying to stifle his yawn. The older man quickly found Sherlock and clapped him on the shoulder.

"How about some lunch?" Lestrade asked and steered him towards the lift. "Canteen is this way, come on," he instructed.

Sherlock followed him silently. His mind remained back in the conference room. Jackson had been thorough. He had forced Sherlock to delve into more specifics than he had been anticipating during the five-hour interrogation. They hadn't even started on the particulars of what Jackson had expected of Sherlock once he was in, or how Jackson expected him to even get back in without being suspicious in Volkov's eyes.

"So you've got the typical salad bar over there," Lestrade started, making Sherlock glance around in surprise when he realized that they had made it to the canteen without him even realizing it. "The fancier hot food line is over there," he pointed to the line in the middle. "It's usually pretty good," he commented with a shrug. "And lastly, there is the snack line," he finished pointing to the far side of the canteen. "It is mostly grab and go kind of stuff. You know, crisps and the like," Lestrade finished with a nervous bounce on the balls of his feet while he looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Not hungry," came Sherlock's terse reply as he went to go find a table to sit at. He didn't need food right now, he needed to think, to prepare for this afternoon. He needed to have some plans prepared to present to Jackson.

"Kid, you need to eat something," Lestrade had evidently followed him to the table he had picked in the back of the canteen.

"Mmm, no," Sherlock argued, steepling his hands under his chin. "I need to think. Eating will get in the way," he informed Lestrade. "What?" Sherlock asked when he realized that Lestrade hadn't moved from standing at the end of the table.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and headed towards one of the food lines.

Sherlock focused back on the task at hand. He needed to find ways to be prepared for whatever the afternoon session would be. The need to appear strong in front of Jackson was mounting. He'd no doubt that the first sign of hesitancy he showed in front of Jackson, Lestrade would step in and he would never let him hear the end of it.

A bag of crisps was thrown at him, breaking him out of his mental planning session. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at Lestrade as the older man sat across from him.

"Humor me," Lestrade nodded his head towards the bag that had been just thrown at him and then set a cup of tea in front of him. "You haven't eaten since dinner last night. You'll need to keep your strength up if you're going to go another five hours in the ring with Jackson."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea before opening the bag of crisps with a flourish and gave Lestrade a pointed look as he popped one into his mouth.

"You did good in there," Lestrade told him between a bite of his salad. "A lot of really solid information that will give the team a chance to come up with several plans."

"Mmm," Sherlock gave an evasive mumble.

The problem was he wasn't as sure about the team's ability to plan. They needed to realize that Volkov was no idiot. The chances of Sherlock being found out were high. He would have to spin the right story to be believable. If he couldn't convince Volkov then the mission would be over with before it even started. He glanced at Lestrade as the man took a bite of his salad. Sherlock had a promise to keep after all.

"What?" his new guardian questioned him with a mouth full of salad.

"Thinking," was all Sherlock replied. He quickly took a sip of tea to hide the smile that was trying to form.

"Hey, Sarge!" an excited feminine voice greeted.

Sherlock turned to see a uniformed officer heading towards their table. She had dark skin with tight, coiled hair that was kept in a low bun. She was young, Sherlock thought, and going by the lack of stripes on her uniform she was fairly new to the force as well.

"Officer Donovan!" Lestrade greeted the newcomer with a wave.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your lunch," She apologized. "I just haven't seen ya around much, and wanted to say hi."

"Yeah, the narcotics team has kept me tucked away, but hopefully I'll be back to homicide before too long. Oh, this is Sherlock," he introduced. "Sherlock is my," Greg trailed off and looked at Sherlock questioning, who only responded with his own questioning raise of his eyebrow. "Sherlock is well, Sherlock. He's helping the Yard out on a case," he explained, and then looked at Sherlock and gave him a shrug of his shoulders.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's description of their relationship. It was accurate enough to pass for now. If Sherlock was able to stay with him after this assignment was over, they would probably discuss something a little more formal. He blinked quickly, forcing that line of thought to pause momentarily, not ready to start labeling particular emotions and attachments he may or may not have for the man that sat across from him.

"Anyway, Sherlock, this is Officer Donovan," Lestrade introduced her to him. "She only joined, oh, what? Has it been a year already?" he asked, giving her a questioning look.

"Yes, sir, next month," she nodded in agreement.

"She's got a real knack for homicide. I bet you two would get along," Lestrade suggested.

Sherlock gave a quick glance up and down the uniformed officer. Sleeping with her superior officer, eager to jump to conclusions without all the information, and clearly no guilt over her current affair even though it was an obvious attempt to rise the ranks at a quicker pace. Sherlock placed another crisp in his mouth so he wouldn't have to answer. There were no scenarios that he could think of that would not end with Lestrade calling him an arse if he spoke what he was thinking.

Officer Donovan gave Sherlock a curious look as if she was trying to place him from somewhere.

"Wait a minute," she stopped to point at Sherlock. "You're the kid from the park a few months back. The last case I worked with Sargeant Lestrade," she finished finally making the connection.

"Yup," Sherlock replied, popped another crisp.

"It's a bit of a story," Lestrade filled in with a pointed look towards Sherlock. "He's usually much more talkative than this. Strong, beautiful women are apparently not his strong suit," he told Officer Donovan with an apologetic smile.

Sherlock lobbed the next crisp at Lestrade's head.

"It's alright," Donovan shrugged him off with a wave. "I actually was going to ask if you were going to go for the DI test next month?" she asked, focused back onto Lestrade now.

Sherlock's ears perked at that information and looked at Lestrade with eager anticipation. Having Lestrade as an Inspector would be excellent. There would be cases, upon cases that Sherlock would have the potential to get his hands on.

"Yeah, I haven't really focused on that too much recently," Lestrade replied, interrupting Sherlock's plans for the future. "I've had a bit on my plate recently," he explained. Sherlock didn't miss the side glance from Officer Donovan. "I will probably just wait until the next go around."

Sherlock frowned at Lestrade. Why was he being so dismissive about moving up? Sherlock was having a hard time piecing this new piece of information with what he had already learned about the man.

Officer Donovan gave a look of understanding. Sherlock could tell that she wasn't quite understanding either, but maybe hesitant to speak up with a superior officer.

"Well, I really just popped in for a snack before my shift starts," Officer Donovan pointed towards the snack line. "I'm on the late shift for the next month," she finished less than enthusiastic about her shift. "I'll see ya around, yeah?" she smiled at Lestrade, who nodded back at her. "Sherlock," she nodded her goodbyes to him before leaving the table.

Lestrade gathered their empty cups and trash on his tray, tidying up the table.

"We should probably head back upstairs ourselves," Lestrade mentioned as he finished piling everything on his tray. Sherlock remained seated on his side of the table, ready to interrogate the man across from him.

"Why are you putting off the Inspector's test?" Sherlock questioned him, bewildered by Lestrade's indifferent attitude.

"I'm not putting it off," Lestrade glared at him, half standing with the tray holding both of their trash. He appeared offended by Sherlock's silent implications.

"Then why won't you take it next month?" he asked Lestrade, still feeling bewildered with the man.

"Look, it's just not really something I can focus on right now," Lestrade replied, letting out a huff of air before falling back into the booth across from Sherlock, the tray clanging slightly in the almost empty canteen.

"So it's me then?" Sherlock asked him, frowning with Lestrade's line of reasoning. "If I wasn't here, you would be taking that test next month?" he questioned, his tone falling slightly. He hadn't stopped to think about how Lestrade's life must be so different since he'd entered into it, how he had inadvertently displaced the man's future. Sherlock just hadn't expected to feel so guilty over it.

"It's not because of you, kid," Lestrade started, and sighed when Sherlock gave him a pointed look. "Fine, it's a little because of you," he admitted and began talking before Sherlock could interrupt him again. "But it isn't a bad problem to have. You've become a priority for me, Sherlock," Lestrade admitted, looking at Sherlock a little unsure of how he would take that. "We don't know how long you'll be undercover for. If I sign up to take that test, and you're still out there, I won't be thinking about that test," he looked at Sherlock, pleading with him to understand. "When we're situated and you aren't under any type of immediate danger, I promise I'll take it."

Sherlock folded his arms on top of the table and stared at the man in front of him for several seconds while he formulated a response. Just like that, the man across from Sherlock had completely dispelled whatever guilt he had felt and replaced it with a warmer feeling that spread through his body from his core to his outward extremities. Sherlock took another sip of tea to hide the blush he was sure was creeping to his cheeks. He would have to find a way to get Lestrade to take that test. _Think._ Lestrade was a man of his word. He had agreed to take care of Sherlock, to see him through the end of the Volkov assignment. One task at a time then.

"So," Sherlock started slowly, still piecing together his response. "If I get in and out fast enough, with the necessary information, you'll take the test?" he asked, excitedly tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

"Sherlock," Lestrade groaned. "It's not that simple-"

"Then make it simple," Sherlock interrupted, exasperated with the man's protests.

Lestrade leveled a glare at him.

"Look, we have more important things to worry about right now," Lestrade argued. "Let's just get through his and we'll see."

Sherlock didn't agree, but he was willing to table the discussion for the time being. Lestrade would be taking that test next month. _I'll make sure of it_ , Sherlock thought to himself as he followed Lestrade out of the canteen and back upstairs to the narcotics department.

* * *

The following day was much of the same routine, only Greg discovered that he had a much easier time rousing Sherlock in the morning if he made coffee before waking up the kid. Sherlock was able to drink almost an entire cup while Greg went through his morning rituals, before switching off with Sherlock. They were out the door much quicker the next day and even ended up early to the meeting. Greg made a mental note that Sherlock was much more amenable after two cups of coffee.

Today's rounds of meetings thankfully appeared to be less Sherlock centered, shifting the focus onto Volkov instead. Greg was thankful for the temporary reprieve. Yesterday afternoon's session went much like the morning's, only not quite as long. Greg was proud of Sherlock though, he held his head high and answered all questions with the grace and strength that even most senior officers still struggled with. The kid would never admit it, not even to him, but after a full day of grilling, he looked exhausted. They ended up heading straight back to Greg's flat for the rest of the evening. Greg made spaghetti while Sherlock picked back up _The Shining_ until dinner was ready. They settled on a serialized detective show that Sherlock ruined for Greg within the first ten minutes. It had been a nice relaxing evening at the end of a long day.

Now, they sat back in the conference room listening to a couple of the senior Sergeants on the narcotics team lay out a laundry list of information they would need Sherlock to get while he was undercover. Everything from visual and audio recordings to hard evidence. Sherlock was leaning back in the chair he occupied, listening intently to what he was expected to collect. Greg had been listening too, but his attention was split between that and Sherlock. The kid's posture was stiff and tightly coiled and his hands were tense, gripping the rails of the chair hard enough his knuckles were beginning to turn white.

"So, obviously the visual evidence will be the most difficult to get," one of the Sergeants began to wrap up. "We'll probably need to focus on outside locations that would be easy to snap pictures or something. The audio recordings should be fairly easy, assuming you'll be able to plant the listening devices in the right areas. We'll probably want to figure out a way to fit you with a wire for when you're mobile-"

"No," Sherlock cut in sharply. "No wires on my person."

The Sergeant he had interrupted shared a glance with his partner before looking back at Jackson with a disbelieving expression.

"I don't think you're getting how this works," the man chuckled.

"And you must be an idiot, after listening to me give an eight-hour lecture explaining, in explicit detail how Volkov. Is. Not. An Idiot!" Sherlock yelled back, punctuating his last few words with small pounds of his right fist against the chair rail it had been resting on.

Greg pursed his lips together and tried to get Sherlock's attention, but his fiery gaze was fixated on the Sergeant at the board.

"He has his goonies check for those sorts of things when he's not paranoid," Sherlock angrily started again. "After your last undercover attempt failed so spectacularly, Volkov went on a rampage. Your undercover officer wasn't the only one to lose their life. Then, for the next week, anyone who had an in-person meeting with him was forced to completely disrobe," he was nearly vibrating now. Greg reached over and rested a comforting hand on Sherlock's forearm, and felt him relax ever so subtly. "So once again, _no wires_."

The room was quiet after Sherlock's speech. The Sergeants at the front both looked sufficiently scolded.

"No wires," Jackson's voice came from the back of the room. "We'll have to come up with alternative ideas. We didn't bring Sherlock in to ignore everything he has to say," he finished from his place at the head of the conference table.

The two Sergeants looked at each other, each exchanging looks of disbelief, but eventually nodded in agreement.

"Yes, sir," the one that had been arguing with Sherlock agreed reluctantly. "What might you suggest then, boy?" the reply wasn't necessarily sarcastic, but it made Lestrade clench his teeth hearing Sherlock being referred to as that.

"I believe listening devices could be planted where Volkov primarily stays. It will just take time to integrate myself back into the fold. Being gone for two months will also not do much for my reputation," Sherlock replied. "I believe giving Volkov a small amount of information would go a long way to mending any bridges with him," he finished carefully.

Jackson nodded thoughtfully at the suggestion.

"I'm sure we could think of something that you could feed him, that wouldn't do too much damage," he agreed.

The buzz of the intercom went off, startling several people around the table.

"Sorry to interrupt," the secretary's voice came over the speaker. "Sergeant Lestrade, you have a phone call on line three."

"Can you take a message?" he asked, not wanting to leave Sherlock alone just yet.

"Sorry, sir, I already tried. The man insists that it is an emergency," she finished apologetically.

"Right, be out in a mo-" he told her then turned to Sherlock. "Try to behave, yeah?"

Sherlock quirked his lips and gave Greg a reassuring nod.

Greg exited the room and found an empty desk close to the conference room to take the phone call.

"Lestrade," he greeted the waiting line.

"Ah, Sergeant Lestrade," the voice on the other side returned his greeting. "So good to hear from you again. I'd like to arrange a meeting to discuss our mutual friend," the mysterious voice informed him.

Greg frowned. _Mutual friend_? He racked his brain to try and pinpoint where he had heard that voice before. Then it clicked, like a match striking fire.

"You!" Greg shouted excited through the phone. "You're the bloke, the _interested party_ , from the cafe!"

"I'm so pleased that you remembered our interaction from only a few days ago," the man replied snidely.

"No, listen here, umbrella boy," Greg started perturbed with the man's flippant attitude.

"There is no need to become upset, Sergeant Lestrade," the man cut Greg off before he could say anything else. "An interesting report came across my desk this morning about your Volkov investigation."

"That's classified!" he stumbled out. "How did you get that?" he asked the unknown man, feeling exceptionally alarmed.

"You'll find that I have access to a vast array of information, but that is neither here nor there," Umbrella Boy waved off nonchalantly. "What is most concerning is that Scotland Yard seems to be going forward with placing our mutual friend in an undercover assignment with a prominent drug lord."

Greg huffed and placed his forehead in the palm of his hand that wasn't holding the phone receiver.

"Yeah, don't get me started," Greg agreed.

"I'm going to send a car for you during your lunch break tomorrow. I have information that may be relevant to your case."

"What kind of information?" Greg asked eagerly.

"Tomorrow, Sergeant Lestrade," the man teased, dangling the possibility of getting Sherlock out of this in front of him.

"Fine, I'll have the kid with me though," Lestrade agreed.

There was the briefest pause from the other end of the line that made Greg frown. The Umbrella Boy had been fairly quick on his feet before now.

"I don't believe that would be a wise decision, Sergeant," he finally replied to Greg hesitantly.

"Why not?" Greg asked, confused. "If you have something that could help us out, I think Sherlock deserves to hear it. Believe it or not, the kid has a good head on his shoulders."

"Yes, I'm sure the mind of a teenager who became addicted to abusive substances in his more formative years, is of sound reasoning," the voice bit out.

"Hey, you don't know the kid like I do," Greg argued.

"Ah, Sergeant Lestrade, that is where you are wrong. I believe he would consider me an enemy."

"An enemy?" Greg questioned, confused. He turned to look back at the conference room where Sherlock was still contained along with the other major players of the narcotics department.

"He would probably even say his arch-enemy," the man on the other line said with just a flair of the dramatic.

"Fifteen-year-olds don't have arch-enemies," Lestrade replied, put off by the elusiveness of the man on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, well, that is subjective. I'll send a car for you tomorrow," the Umbrella Boy answered solemnly.

"Wait-" Greg started, but the dial tone rang out from the other end of the phone line.

He slowly hung up the phone and remained at the empty desk, needing a minute to compose himself. Everything was only continuing to ramp up. Now he had Umbrella Boy to worry about in addition to everything else. He'd take the meeting with him tomorrow, only on the outside chance that this guy would be able to actually help Sherlock. For now, he needed to get back to the kid.

* * *

Lestrade had taken them by the store for dinner supplies before heading back to Lestrade's flat. The older man had been fairly subdued the afternoon, especially once he had returned from the mysterious telephone call he had stepped out to take. Sherlock caught him gazing off several times, and he had passed off his aloof behavior with _being tired_. It was odd behavior from the Sergeant who had up until this point been fairly upfront with his feelings and had no problem discussing them with SHerlock. While normally, Sherlock would welcome such silence, now it seemed that he was being frozen out by Lestrade, and he found that feeling unsettling.

"You never did get around to telling me who called you earlier," Sherlock tried to break the ice while Lestrade went around the kitchen grabbing the other various items that were needed to cook dinner tonight.

Lestrade set a large pan on the electric stovetop and turned it on before looking back at Sherlock.

"What phone," he started before shaking his head. "Right, that phone call. It was no one," Lestrade brushed off.

"You're distracted tonight," Sherlock frowned.

Lestrade waved him off, "It's nothing. Just a lot on my mind is all," he told him.

"Ah, all that thinking must hurt," Sherlock teased, and skillfully avoided a kitchen tea towel that was thrown at his head.

"Come on then," Lestrade waved him over. "Since you're so full of helpful comments, why don't you help with dinner."

Sherlock frowned but got up from his seat at the kitchen table to move to assist the other man.

"I, uh, don't know how to cook," he told Lestrade hesitantly.

"No time like the present," Lestrade replied, evidently unbothered by Sherlock's lack of experience in the kitchen. "We're making chicken parm, my family's secret recipe that my dad taught me, so I expect it to stay between the two of us," Lestrade gave Sherlock a wink and pointed a wooden spoon in his direction.

Sherlock grabbed the wooden kitchen utensil and stared at it confused before Lestrade directed him to the kitchen table with a cutting board, taking the wooden spoon out of his hand and replacing it with a cutting knife.

"Here, we'll have you start by chopping the garlic," Lestrade told him and showed him how to dice the small white cloves of garlic.

Lestrade went back to the kitchen counter and began prepping the chicken.

"So the phone call that was no one," Sherlock continued as he moved to the second clove of garlic. "Was able to get through to you at work to just have a chat?" he prodded.

"Something like that," Greg mumbled, turning back to grab the chopped garlic that Sherlock had been working on and tossing it on the pan he had put on the stove earlier. "Grab your spoon," he instructed, adding a small amount of oil with it. "Stir," he told Sherlock and then went back to the chicken.

Sherlock began pushing the small chunks of garlic around in the oil, watching as they sizzled in the large saucepan. He kept giving Lestrade quick glances, trying to gauge exactly what the other man was hiding. It was troublesome that Lestrade was not being open with him. Perhaps the reason behind the other man's secrecy was because it involved Sherlock. Maybe Lestrade had changed his mind about Sherlock. Perhaps he had spoken with someone at Child Servies about him.

"So your phone call," Sherlock started in again, determined to get to the bottom of it.

Lestrade sighed and dumped several cans of tomatoes into Sherlock's pan.

"It was nothing. Just was being reminded about an appointment I have tomorrow is all," Lestrade told him, taking the wooden spoon from him for a moment to show him how to stir the new additions, before handing it back to Sherlock.

"An appointment?" Sherlock asked skeptically, while Lestrade continued to add several different seasonings to the pan.

"Yeah, an appointment," Lestrade confirmed, sounding more confident in his answer.

Sherlock looked on at the older man, doubtful that he was being completely honest with him. He kept giving him subtle glances while he continued to stir the sauce while Greg began dipping the chicken in various substances until they were coated with an even layer of breading.

"What?" Greg asked him, folding his arms across his chest while the chicken was cooking in the pan next to Sherlock's.

"I think you're hiding something," Sherlock mumbled his answer to the other man.

"I'm not hiding anything. I just don't have to tell you everything," Lestrade countered.

Sherlock frowned and turned back to his own pan. So Lestrade was hiding something from him. What could be big enough that the other man would keep something from him?

Lestrade turned down the temperature of Sherlock's pan and took the spoon from him.

"Good job stirring," he told Sherlock. "Now you just let it simmer until the chicken is done," Lestrade said, chucking the wooden utensil into the sink. "Why don't you grab some plates and silverware."

Sherlock went about the small kitchen that he had learned over the last week of staying with Lestrade (sober and not through withdrawals anyways.) He yanked open the drawer where Lestrade kept his silverware and then reached up to grab a couple of plates, before turning back to the table slamming them a little harder than necessary.

"Sherlock, just drop it," Lestrade groaned at Sherlock's irritable mood swing. "It's really not that big of a deal. I just have to go meet someone tomorrow. I'm sure you'll be fine for an hour by yourself."

Sherlock flopped into his normal seat at the kitchen table to glare at the back of Lestrade's head.

"If it's not a big deal, then why won't you tell me where you're going," Sherlock countered, crossing his arms in a sulk.

Lestrade let out an audible groan and turned the stove off. He plated their dishes quickly and topped them both off with a healthy amount of parmesan cheese.

"Look, it's just lunch," Lestrade told him while he was grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge. "I just have some things I need to discuss with this guy. You'd be bored," he told Sherlock, seating himself in his own chair at the kitchen table.

"Why are you being so evasive? Why won't you tell me where you're going?" Sherlock questioned him, as Lestrade took a bite of his dinner.

"Greg swallowed and sighed into his beer.

"Why does it bother you so much?" Lestrade began to get short with him.

Sherlock pushed his food around on his plate, contemplating the appropriate response.

"I would just like enough forewarning to prepare myself if I'm not to continue to live with you any longer," Sherlock ground out, irritated that he was the one that was giving away more information than he was getting.

"What?" Lestrade asked him, stunned with a bite of chicken still in his mouth.

Sherlock glared at him from across the table.

"I'm not an idiot, Lestrade."

"No one said you were!" Lestrade agreed, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

"Then why else would you have all this secrecy around your lunch date tomorrow?" Sherlock asked him, putting his silverware down, unable to eat. "If you no longer wish to continue with our agreement, all you had to do was say so," he finished quietly.

"Is that what you think?" Lestrade asked him open-mouthed at Sherlock's line of reasoning.

Sherlock looked down and fiddled with his hands under the table.

"Kit, sometimes, a lunch is just a lunch," Lestrade said, and Sherlock glanced up and saw the sincerity in the other man's eyes. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," he finished with a soft smile.

Sherlock looked back down, now properly embarrassed by his outburst.

"Unless you don't want to stay with me?" Lestrade asked hesitantly.

Sherlock shook his head, "You're not getting rid of me that easily," he mirrored what the other man had just said.

Lestrade smiled and went back to eating his dinner.

Finally relieved that Lestrade wasn't getting rid of him, he tucked into his own dinner. He closed his eyes after the first bite of chicken, oh, that was _delicious_.

"Told you it was good," Lestrade smirked.

They finished dinner and cleaned up in companionable silence. Lestrade seemed to let Sherlock's outburst of drama drop for the time being, and he was thankful for that.

Now, the two men sat on the couch each engrossed in their own distractions. Lestrade sat on one corner of the couch watching the evening news, while Sherlock had created himself a nest of blankets and pillows, and was reading through some of Lestrade's old notebooks which contained previous case notes. He was thoroughly comfortable wearing some old sleep pajama bottoms, and one of Lestrade's old college football shirts which was several sizes too large for him. Lestrade grumbled about some story that was playing on the news, causing Sherlock to glance up from his reading. He smiled at the older man and went back down to his new reading materials. For the first time since Sherlock could remember he felt comfortable with himself and safe to be who he was. He finally felt like he was home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy another chapter of semi-fluff... while you can ;-)  
> Special thanks to my wonderful beta, Hucklebarry.

**Chapter 12**

Sherlock followed Lestrade down the familiar path towards the cafeteria. This morning's meetings weren't nearly as intense or Sherlock centered, which he was thankful for. The surveillance team had come in to go over different audio and visual recording options, along with ideal placement locations for bugging Volkov and his associates. Plans were rapidly coming together, and his week with Lestrade was quickly coming to an end. Every day that Sherlock stayed with Lestrade, he found that it was becoming that much harder to mentally prepare himself for leaving the safety and comfort that his new guardian provided him. Going from not having a support system, such as Lestrade, to having one had surprisingly been a welcoming experience.

He glanced over Lestrade while they were waiting for the lift to let them out on the bottom floor. Some of the tension his new guardian had could be attributed to Sherlock's imminent departure. Sherlock wondered though, how much of it was due to Lestrade's mysterious lunch date. While Lestrade had eased some of his concerns last night, he was still irritated that the older man had yet to give in and tell Sherlock where he was headed.

"Why won't you tell me where you're going?" Sherlock questioned him as they made their way through the halls of Scotland Yard, trying, yet again, to get an answer out of Lestrade.

Lestrade sighed, "You'll be fine." he grumbled at Sherlock. As they entered through the canteen doors, Lestrade passed some cash to Sherlock, "Get some lunch for yourself and I'll be back in an hour."

"You're still being evasive," Sherlock pouted as he took the money.

"Sherlock, we talked about this, I'm not being evasive. I just don't have to tell you everything," Lestrade argued back. "With you moving in, I'd thought you'd like it if I left a little bit of mystery around my life," he finished with a wink.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the comment.

"Besides," Lestrade started back up again. "I'm leaving you alone in Scotland Yard, surely you can find something to do for the hour I'll be gone."

"You aren't worried I'll get into trouble without your supervision?" Sherlock asked the older man with a challenging raise of his eyebrow.

Lestrade looked at him as though he couldn't tell if Sherlock was being sincere or sarcastic, but then the man smiled and began stroking his chin, apparently trying to pretend to be mockingly contemplating something.

"Hmmm," he kept stroking his chin for effect. "Alone, surrounded by Yarders. No," Lestrade teased. "I'm not worried that you'll get into trouble in the middle of London's finest," he laughed and then reached to ruffle Sherlock's hair, earning him a glare from the teenager. "You still need a haircut."

"It's fine," Sherlock mumbled as he tried to flatten his hair back down after Lestrade had disheveled it.

"Look, I have to go, kid. I'll be back in time to meet you upstairs for the first meeting after lunch. I'll find a way to make it up to you, yeah?" Lestrade told him as he glanced down at his watch to check the time.

"How?" Sherlock's ears had perked up, intrigued by the offer.

Lestrade shrugged, "I don't know, I'll let you pick dinner tonight?" he offered, but Sherlock wasn't impressed by his offering.

He crossed his arms across his chest, "I want another cold case," Sherlock countered.

Lestrade laughed, "Behave!" he pointed at Sherlock, leaving the teen in the cafeteria as he made his way towards the main entrance.

Sherlock frowned at the cash in his hand. He looked up to observe the other lunch-goers with a sneer. Surely there were other more interesting things to do than eat lunch. Sherlock smiled and pocketed the money, an idea coming to mind, and left the cafeteria to explore his other options for the afternoon.

* * *

Greg was led through the silent halls of the Diogenes Club by the same man that chauffeured him from the Yard. He felt vastly out of his depth as he walked towards his destination. This was not what he was expecting when he had been invited for lunch by the _interested party_. Maybe the corner booth of a seedy pub, or the alley of an abandoned train line. Looking around at the pristine building, he was suspicious that he was currently surrounded by more money and people of importance than he had ever dreamed about. Of course, based on the three-piece suit the man wore the last time they had met, he wasn't sure why he hadn't pictured something fancier.

"Lunch is waiting for you just beyond those doors," the chauffeur told him motioning to a plain white door that they had stopped in front of.

Greg went to open the door but paused just before reaching the handle.

Greg put on his most charming smile, "I don't suppose you'll tell me his name will you?" he asked hopefully.

"Have a good lunch, Mr. Lestrade. I'll be by the car when you're ready to go back to Scotland Yard," the chauffeur answered with his own smile and headed back down the hallway.

Greg took a deep breath and let his hand close the remaining distance and let himself into the room.

Umbrella Boy was seated at a small table that had been set up in the middle of a... what was this? An office? A parlor? The man stopped reading the paper in front of him and folded it neatly into fourths, before standing gracefully to greet him.

"Ah, Sergeant Lestrade, I'm glad you made it," he welcomed and indicated to the chair across from where he had been sitting.

Lestrade gave a grim smile with murmured thanks and took his seat. He was surprised by the spread that was in front of him. A full roast with an assortment of cooked vegetables, along with the customary tea.

"This is, ah," Greg paused, having a hard time coming up with words for everything he was currently processing.

"Going cold," the other man informed him before serving himself a plate.

"Right," Greg tried to snap out of his surprise and focus on the task at hand. "So we've now had what? Tea, a phone call, and now we're sharing lunch. I feel like that warrants knowing your name," he tried sarcastically, knowing that the other man would give him nothing.

The other man smiled while he poured a small amount of gravy over his roast.

"I'm sure everything will come out in due time," the man started with his dead smile. "Tell me, Sergeant, how is Sherlock adapting to life, not on the streets?" the man asked with an eager expression on his face.

Greg frowned. This new man was something of a mystery to him. There was some missing piece to the puzzle that Lestrade just couldn't quite put his finger on, and he was sure that the man in front of him held that piece that would make everything click.

Greg stared at the man across from him curiously, "Who is he to you?" he asked back, but when he didn't get an answer he continued on. "You act as if you know him," he pointed to the other man, looking for answers.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you that I worried about him, almost constantly?" the man answered cryptically, yet there was a hint of sincerity to it. Something genuine flashed in the man's eyes, albeit briefly before his walls came back up.

No, it didn't make him feel better. In fact, knowing that this man had some type of knowledge, relationship, _something_ , with Sherlock, left a bad taste in his mouth. This whole meeting was beginning to seem like a bad idea. There were too many what-ifs. What if this was some kind of setup? What if this man didn't have Sherlock's best interests in mind? Greg shook his head and placed his napkin back on the table before standing up. He didn't need to deal with any more nonsense than he already was.

"I'm not doing this," Greg told the man angrily. "I've got too many other things to worry about, I don't have time for whatever this is," he finished with a wave of his hands and headed towards the door. "Let me know when you're ready to drop the cloak and dagger act."

"Didn't you find it interesting," the man's voice stopped him from making it to the door, "When your paths crossed again after your initial meeting?"

Greg spun to give him a questioning gaze.

"What are you on about?" he asked the man suspiciously.

The man tilted his head to the left, and shrugged his shoulders, "Here this drug-addicted teenager stumbles into your life not only a personal level but professionally as well," Umbrella Boy started off and then zeroed in his gaze onto Greg. "Tell me, Sergeant Lestrade, how common _is it_ for an up and coming Sergeant to get transferred to a different department at the drop of a hat? Much or less one that is getting ready to investigate a notorious drug lord, that his new ward just happened to work for?" the man finished resting his elbows across the table and locked eyes with Greg.

Greg shook his head, "That was just some kind of strange coincidence," Greg's confidence slowly tapered off as he answered.

"Oh, Sergeant," the other man tisked and neatly folded his arms in his lap. "The universe is rarely so lazy."

Greg perked at that phrasing and was about to comment on that when something else clicked for him.

"The orders from on high," he murmured, staring questioning at the other man. "No one could give me a reason why I was transferred out of homicide."

The man smiled at his answer and leaned back in his chair.

"On high is a bit excessive," he told Greg with a smirk. "I merely occupy a minor position in the British government."

Greg went back to his seat and slowly sat down, still trying to process everything he was being told.

"So this is all you?" he asked, confused. "You're the one that organized me being on the narcotics team to... what? Keep an eye on Sherlock?" Greg was still trying to piece together everything, but was still felt slow on the uptake. "If you're so worried about Sherlock, why aren't you helping me get him out of this ridiculous case?" he asked the other man, feeling his anger begin to rise to the surface.

"What if I told you, Sergeant Lestrade," Umbrella Boy started up again. "What if I told you that there is more to Volkov than is being presented to you."

"What do you mean?" Greg asked him, looking concerned.

"Sergeant, Alexander Volkov isn't even close to the top of the food chain. There is someone much higher, spinning webs that Scotland Yard could never hope to unravel," the man told him with a sad smile.

Greg stared down at the other man, trying to process what he was saying. If Volkov wasn't even the big bad, that meant that there was someone _worse_. More unknowns. More variables being added. Just how Sherlock fit into all this still wasn't making any sense to him, either.

"You need to let Sherlock go back in," the man said sadly, gripping tightly at the handle of his umbrella.

"Why?" he bit out, angrily. This wasn't making any sense.

The man let out a sad sigh, "Because, if anyone can start to unravel potentially dangerous webs, then it's Sherlock," he finished, resting his umbrella back against the table.

"You act like you know him or something," Greg stated flatly. "If you know him, then why aren't you fighting to keep him out of there?" he demanded, pressing his index finger into the table.

The man shook his head, and then rose from his seat across from Greg's.

"Because, like Volkov, I am not remotely close to the top of the food chain," he answered solemnly.

Greg frowned at the reasoning. He had to shove his hand to stop his nervous leg from bouncing.

"It's time to choose a side, Sergeant Lestrade," the Umbrella Boy told him before leaving to exit the room.

"I have," Greg's voice seemed to make the man momentarily halt his exit. He turned in his chair to lock eyes with the other man, "I'm on Sherlock's side."

The man gave him a small nod before leaving the room completely.

Greg stared after him, feeling even more confused now than before lunch.

* * *

Sherlock roamed the halls of the Yard during his lunch break since Lestrade left for some clandestine meeting that he refused to let Sherlock in on. While he was perturbed that Lestrade refused to tell him where he was sneaking off to, he was relieved after their discussion the previous night that Lestrade wasn't getting rid of Sherlock just yet. Besides, he found that it was nice to have some time to himself, even if it was just strolling through the halls of Scotland Yard. Before he had fled to London he was used to spending the majority of his time alone. Now, he lived with someone that expected regular communication and he was forced to meet with strangers and talk on a daily basis. It was draining. Still, Lestrade was possibly the least annoying of any of the other scenarios he could have ended up in.

He paused in front of a large set of gray double doors and broke out into a large grin, _Forensics Department_ , the plating on the doors read. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was in the hall, he let himself in. There was a small hallway with offices to the left. On the right, however, was the crowned jewel. The lab. He opened up the doors and had to restrain himself from jumping up and down. _Oh, this is was what Christmas must be like for normal people_ , he thought to himself before setting off into the lab. There were instruments upon instruments, with a table just dedicated to microscopes. Oh, this was _much_ better than the labs at his previous schools.

With an excited clap of his hands, he picked a microscope at random, excited to find it still had a slide placed in it. With another quick glance to make sure he was still alone, he settled himself onto the stool and eagerly began scanning through the viewfinder to see what the previous occupant and had been observing.

"Who let you in here?"

Sherlock looked up started to find that someone had entered the lab with him. A man approximately Lestrade's age that was wearing a white lab coat that bore the stains of various spills. The black-rimmed glasses were a prominent feature on an otherwise nondescript face. The man seemed to be more curious than upset at finding him in the lab.

"I-uh-well, you see," Sherlock fumbled around looking for the right answer.

"You par of some summer school group or something?" the man asked, walking closer to him.

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "I'm Lestrade's..." he tapered off ever so slightly, at a loss at what to call himself exactly, which gave the man just enough time to jump to conclusions.

"Greg Lestrade?" he asked happily, continuing on when Sherlock nodded. "Oh, Greg is a good guy. Always look forward to working with him on a case. Didn't know he had a son, though! Nice to meet you! I'm Mike," he greeted, reaching a hand out towards Sherlock. "Mike Stamford."

Sherlock hesitantly reached out to shake hands with the new person.

"Sherlock," he returned slowly, surprised by the man's outgoing personality.

"So, Sherlock, see anything interesting under there?" Mike asked, nodding to the microscope.

"Lead," Sherlock told him, floored that he hadn't been immediately tossed out of the lab. "Red lead paint to be exact."

Stamford gave him a dazzling smile, clearly excited by Sherlock's answer.

"Oh, you're smart. Don't know why your dad's kept you hidden all this time," Mike tisked. "Listen, we have a summer internship available," he mentioned with a shrug. "Why don't you apply for it the next go around. I bet you'll make it in," he finished with a wink. "Now, I really do have to get back to work, I'll walk you out," he offered, holding the lab doors open for him.

Sherlock slowly trudged out, not eager to return to an afternoon of listening to Jackson's idiots upstairs come up with 'brilliant' ideas. When they walked back out into the main hall, Sherlock almost walked directly into Lestrade.

"There you are!" Lestrade exclaimed, relief showing plainly across his face. "Been looking everywhere for you."

"Don't worry, Lestrade," the young forensics doctor waved him off. "Your son's been no problem," he informed. Lestrade gave Sherlock a lopsided smirk, and Sherlock hung his head in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. "Now, don't forget, I expect you to apply for that internship next year," Mike directed with a point to Sherlock before giving them both his goodbyes and disappearing behind the doors of the lab.

"Thanks, Mike!" Lestrade waved the other man off. "Nice to see that you can make friends," he joked, turning back to Sherlock.

"You're not mad?" Sherlock asked, stunned that Lestrade wasn't scolding him for lying about who he was.

"Why would I be mad?" Lestrade replied back, confused.

"That I used being your son as an excuse to not get into trouble for sneaking into the lab?"

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head.

"Kid, if that is the worst thing you do, we'll be fine," Lestrade told him with a pat to his shoulder, and they began to walk back upstairs.

Sherlock frowned as he pondered this while they waited for the lift in the main lobby. He had not expected for Lestrade to be so easy going about Sherlock trying to pass for the man's family. Not that they hadn't grown close over the last few months, and they _had_ discussed a continued living arrangement. Still, that did not make Sherlock family. He had been repeatedly reminded about what it was to be family. It was in the _blood_ , or so he'd been told. Sherlock frowned and tried to glance at Lestrade without him noticing. What was it that Julie had said to him?

_"I would pick the family that wanted me."_

Sherlock looked down at his shoes. It couldn't just be that easy. Could it?

A familiar voice shouted over his thoughts, making him and Lestrade turn away from the lifts.

"Hey, Sarge!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, recognizing Officer Donovan's annoying voice.

"Be nice. Please?" Lestrade asked through his smiling teeth before Officer Donovan was within earshot.

"I'm just on my way to my shift, but I wanted to say how excited I am for you! I know you'll pass with flying colors!" she told Lestrade excitedly.

Lestrade looked completely bewildered, and Sherlock used this brief moment to distance himself from the older man ever so slightly, at least enough of a distance to put him out of immediate punching range.

"What are you talking about?" Lestrade questioned her, still blessedly confused.

"The DI test! I saw you signed up to take it next month. You'll do awesome! Just remember us little people when you're the big man on campus," she joked with a wink.

Lestrade hung his mouth dumbfounded.

"But- I-" he continued to struggle to come up with words and turned to look back at Sherlock.

Sherlock did his best to remain oblivious and returned Lestrade's look with a smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. It only took seconds for Lestrade's look to turn murderous. _Not convincing enough then_ , he thought while still trying to keep his innocent smile from turning into a grimace.

"I've got to go. On my way out. Good luck if I don't see you before your test!" Donovan replied excitedly and made her way out of the main lobby.

Lestrade stayed in place for a moment, staring after Officer Donovan, and Sherlock got to witness first hand how the man attempted to physically cope with unpleasant news. It started with a roll of his shoulders, then he clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, followed by a deep, calming inhale as he let his head fall back.

Lestrade spun back towards Sherlock, zeroing in on Sherlock with clenched fists.

"How?" Lestrade demanded from him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied with an innocent shrug of his shoulders.

"You can't just waltz in and sign someone up for this test. You can't just forge a signature. You've got to have a badge number for starters," Lestrade started in on him, ready to tick off points with his fingers.

Sherlock reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the small shiny badge, bringing the Sergeant's argument to an abrupt end. He held it out for its rightful owner to take back.

Lestrade immediately patted down his jacket and then snatched the badge out of Sherlock's hand when he came up empty-handed?

"You were being annoying," Sherlock defended, shoving his now empty hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Annoying?" came Lestrade's exasperated response.

"You continued to refuse to sign up for that test. Then you wouldn't take me to your secret lunch meeting."

"So you picked my pocket and signed me up for the Detective Inspectors' test?" Lestrade said, his voice rising a few octaves.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the angry man to make his way towards the elevators. He couldn't stop the smile that broke across his face when he heard Lestrade fussing behind him.

"Oh, you bastard," he heard Lestrade grumble under his breath as he begrudgingly followed Sherlock to the elevators.

* * *

"Is that everything?" Jackson asked the room, checking on each individual with his eagle-eyed gaze.

 _No_ , Lestrade thought silently, nervously bouncing his leg under the table. He didn't think he'd ever be ready to send Sherlock back to Volkov. This week had gone by too quickly. Sherlock nudged his foot against Lestrade's under the conference room table, causing him to still his leg and Lestrade could feel himself relax ever so slightly.

"We'll go ahead and adjourn for now then," Jackson started back up again when no one had anything else left to offer. "A lot of good work this week, team. Sherlock," he paused, when his gaze landed on the kid, "I understand that this is too much responsibility and danger on one person's shoulders, much or less the shoulders of someone so young. Stick to the plan and we'll be fine."

Sherlock gave a single nod, while Lestrade frowned at the generic response.

The room emptied out rather quickly after Jackson dismissed everyone. Sherlock paused at the door to wait for Lestrade, who was lingering behind.

"Go on," Greg shooed with his hand. "I'll be out in a tick."

Sherlock glanced at Jackson and then back to Greg, giving the Sergeant a suspicious look before exiting the room. Greg turned to the narcotics Inspector and slowly stalked to the older man.

"Something I can do for you, Sergeant?" Jackson asked as he got up from his chair, shoving a stack of papers under his arm.

"If Sherlock gets hurt," Greg began, but was cut off quickly by Jackson.

"Is this the part where you threaten me? Surprised you've waited this long," Jackson replied back in an easy-going manner, making the hair on the back of Greg's neck stand on end. "If Sherlock gets hurt, you'll what? Beat me senseless? Make sure everyone knows that I'm the big bad wolf that lured a teenager back into a drug den?" came the smoking response. "I know Sherlock's type," Jackson started up again. "He's a user, a junkie. Trust me, he is just as eager to get back to Volkov to get his next _hit_ ," he finished with a sneer.

"You're wrong," Greg replied, incensed that Jackson would ever imply that.

Jackson chuckled, "We'll be lucky if he doesn't flip on us," he told Lestrade, keeping the sneer set on his face.

Greg paused to collect himself. Getting angry and punching the smug look off of Jackson's face now wouldn't do Sherlock any god. Instead, he composed himself to look nonplussed, and gave Jackson a little smile, obviously setting the man on edge.

"You know those 'Orders from on high' that had me ordered to the narcotics team?" Greg asked waiting for Jackson to acknowledge him before continuing on. "Turns out that they came a little higher than any of us thought," he told the other man with a happy shrug of his shoulders.

"What are you talking about, Lestrade?"

"I'm talking about this ridiculous mission. I'm talking about what will happen to _you_ ," he emphasized with a point at the man, "If Sherlock comes back injured in the smallest amount," he threatened Jackson, who started to look the slightest bit nervous. "I swear, if one hair on that kid's head comes back harmed, those same orders from on high that brought me here will have you buried so far that no one will even remember you existed," Greg finished darkly. He let his menacing look stay on the man for several more seconds before he let himself relax.

When Jackson had nothing left to say, Greg threw him a brilliant smile.

"Ta!" he threw over his shoulder, leaving the stunned Inspector alone in the conference room.

Sherlock had been leaning on an empty desk across from the conference room, waiting on Lestrade to finish up. The kid gave him a knowing smirk and uncrossed his arms to join Greg and they headed for the lifts that would take them out of the narcotics department.

"Did that let you feel more manly?" Sherlock asked when Greg started humming.

"Yeah, it did," he told the kid with a devious smile, and the two shared a chuckle to themselves.

* * *

The two sat down for a bite to eat at the same fish and chips place they had shared their first dinner. His old backpack and copy of _Anna Karenina_ had been returned to him in preparation for his integration back into Volkov's team. Once back at Lestrade's flat, Sherlock had selected a few of his old clothes and new ones that Lestrade had purchased for him that would last him the estimated month he'd be gone.

Sherlock took a bite of fish, using the excuse of food to hide his smile that cropped up when Sherlock thought back on his afternoon with Lestrade. After leaving the Yard, Lestrade took them to Piccadilly Circus where they found a place to stop for ice cream, making Sherlock feel like a five-year-old. After that, Lestrade surprised him with a 'Jack the Ripper' tour, which left Sherlock with a smile on his face all the way back to Lestrade's flat to get ready. After one last shower, he threw his pack over his shoulder, and followed a reluctant Lestrade out the flat door towards one last dinner.

"I just don't see why you have to leave tonight," Lestrade complained, popping another fry into his mouth.

Sherlock frowned, now that the time was here, he was finding it surprisingly difficult to prepare himself for going back to his former life. _It is only temporary_ , he kept telling himself on repeat. Only he found it difficult listening to what he was forcing himself to believe, when his mind had this afternoon's pleasant activities on repeat. Sherlock sighed, it was now or never. He could do this.

"I've already told you, it will be easier to leave in the night," Sherlock's voice didn't sound as eager or sharp even to his own ears. He needed to get in the right mindset, or he would doom himself before the mission even started.

"I'm not arguing with that bit, I just don't get why it has to be _tonight_ ," Lestrade argued. "Besides, we haven't even had a chance to-"

"You're stalling," Sherlock interrupted, tossing a fry at the Sergeant sitting across from him.

Greg snorted, "Can you blame me?" he asked sadly. "This is dangerous."

"Not any less dangerous than the months I was with Volkov before meeting you," Sherlock argued.

"Sherlock, if he finds out that you're with the police-" Lestrade sounded like he was working himself up.

"He won't," Sherlock cut off the other man, happy that he sounded more confident than he felt.

" _If_ he does, he will kill you," Lestrade restarted his argument, bordering on frantic. "That's only the worst-case scenario.

"Did you miss _all_ of the meetings we've been a part of over the last week?" Sherlock asked him and Lestrade glared at the sarcasm coming through his tone. "We've worked out every possible scenario," he finished softer.

Lestrade shook his head and shoved his basket of food away.

"There are too many variables, Sherlock. This is a _terrible_ idea," the man's dark brown eyes pleaded with Sherlock to change his mind.

"Lestrade," Sherlock closed his eyes off from the man and shook his head.

"No, don't _Lestrade_ me," Greg cut in angrily. "That lunch I went to yesterday, I met this guy that I've dealt with a couple of times," he continued to tell him anxiously. "Anyway, I think he knows something, this guy with the umbrella-"

"Umbrella?" Sherlock's head straightened sharply, but Lestrade was too far into his own head to notice Sherlock's recognition. "You never mentioned the man with the umbrella before. What did he look like?" he questioned curiously.

"He was trying to explain that there was more to this than I was seeing," Lestrade carried on, obviously not hearing Sherlock.

"Did he look like a ponce? I bet he looked like a poncey git," Sherlock snarled. Leave it to his brother to stick his large nose into business that wasn't his.

"I had been hoping he had some miracle that didn't involve sending you back in, but of course not," he exclaimed, raising his hands in the air.

"Lestrade," Sherlock sighed, inching his face closer to Lestrade, trying to get the man to focus.

"Listen," Lestrade wasn't even listening to Sherlock at this point. "You have to promise me you'll be careful, alright? No swanning off and going off the script. Get in, and get the hell back out of there. No dawdling, just get this over with as quickly as possible," he emphasized with a swipe of his hands.

" _Greg_ ," Sherlock tried once more.

Lestrade stopped his rambling and looked up at Sherlock with surprise.

"You remembered my name," the police Sergeant whispered softly.

"Of course I remembered your name," Sherlock sighed. He looked down at his hands to compose himself before continuing. "You have saved my life in more ways than you'll know," Lestrade visibly softened at that admission. "I promise I will stick to the plan. I promise I won't put myself in any more danger than necessary," he finished and ate a couple of more fries.

Lestrade let out a large sigh and covered his face with his hands.

"I need you to trust me, Lestrade," Sherlock started up again, and hesitated when Lestrade dropped his hands to look at him again. "Besides, we have plans to look at schools and flats. Can't leave you with all of the decisions. You'd probably stick me in a monastery," he tried to lighten the mood, but the quip fell just short of flat.

Lestrade chuckled and pushed the food around in his basket.

"I'd be well within my rights too," Lestrade replied with a joking wink, trying to match Sherlock's optimism.

"Besides, by my calculations, I have, oh, thirty-four days to make sure you take that Inspectors' test," Sherlock told him with a wink of his own.

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"I'll hold you to that," he told Sherlock with a finger pointed in his direction. "I swear I won't take that test unless I know you're safe, and done with all of this nonsense."

Sherlock nodded his understanding.

Greg and Sherlock locked eyes. This was it. If he didn't leave now, Sherlock felt like he'd let Lestrade talk him out of this nonsense with Volkov. This was the point of no return.

"I should go," Sherlock started hesitantly, pushing his empty basket away from him.

Lestrade rose in a synchronized motion with Sherlock and Sherlock tried to ignore the water gathering in the brown eyes of his guardian.

"Just remember," Lestrade started quietly. "I won't care what you have to do to survive, just _promise_ me-"

Sherlock cut the other man off by coming around the table to give Lestrade a tentative hug. He relaxed immediately when it was returned quickly.

"I promise," he whispered, then promptly turned from the other man, and grabbed his backpack before rapidly exiting the restaurant.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A special thanks to my beta, Hucklebarry, for pointing me in the right direction for this chapter. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and messaged me about how much they've enjoyed this story. It brightens my day.

**Chapter 13**

The dark hardwood floors were cold against his bare feet and shined with evidence of recent polishing. Even the hallways were ornate, with patterned red wallpaper adorned with a variety of oil paintings from artists that he had never bothered to learn. There was a feeling of coldness, and not of warmth that he suspected other homes had.

Sherlock roamed through the halls, bored out of his mind with nothing to do. Since he had nowhere to be, he stayed in his back silk pajamas more often than not. He left his robe undone to reveal a plain blue shirt. In another world, he would be in his Lit class at the moment; now, due to a set of unfortunate circumstances, he was roaming the halls of hell with nothing with which to occupy himself.

A sound caught his attention in a room off to the left. Sherlock was surprised, seeing how the occupant of that room had officially moved out earlier this year. He tiptoed across the hall to see who was there.

"Oh, what is that," Sherlock mocked his brother's appearance when he barged into the room unannounced.

Mycroft spun from examining himself in the full-length mirror of his childhood room, surprised to hear Sherlock's voice. He frowned when his younger brother made himself comfortable slouching in one of the window's sitting chairs.

"I know you're doing poorly in school, but surely you've learned by now what an umbrella is," Mycroft replied with a haughty sneer.

Sherlock moaned and left his arm fall off to the side, letting his fingers scrape against the hardwood floors, allowing his body to melt even further into the chair.

"I'm _not_ doing poorly in school," Sherlock argued from across the room.

His older brother lifted a challenging eyebrow, "Oh? It was my understanding you'd been expelled. _Again_ ," he finished with a disappointing look and turned back to his mirror to straighten his tie.

"There was a minor incident with the chemistry lab," Sherlock muttered, "But my _grades_ were excellent," he finished loudly, getting up from the chair to stand next to his brother while he fidgeted in front of the mirror. "What is all of this for?" he asked Mycroft, pointing to their reflection in the mirror. The sharp contrast of Sherlock in his loungewear versus Mycroft in a three-piece suit was striking.

"You need a haircut," Mycroft observed, turning his observational skills to his brother's reflection.

"My hair is fine," Sherlock pouted, and subconsciously went to smooth his curls down. "Your hair, however, looks like you took an iron to it."

Mycroft frowned and ran his fingers through his hair to try and give it that extra bit of volume.

"I'm meeting with Uncle Rudy about a possible job opportunity for after I graduate next spring," he told him, focused on straightening his suit and posing with the umbrella.

"Ah," Sherlock over-exaggerated his reaction and shot a smirk to his brother's reflection before turning to exit Mycroft's room.

" _What_?" Mycroft ground out and spun on his heel.

Sherlock leaned back against the doorframe that led out of his older brother's room and smiled.

"Oh, nothing," Sherlock shrugged off, yet keeping the smug smile glued to his face, only for the purpose of irritating his brother. "I don't know why you're trying so hard," Sherlock muttered. "Uncle Rudy has been grooming you for that position since you started primary school."

"Yes, well, some of us actually care about our appearances," Mycroft told him with a superficial smile.

"Well, given Uncle Rudy's tendencies to cross-dress, I'd say he does, too," Sherlock laughed when he almost got a smile to crack Mycroft's hollow facade.

Mycroft recovered quickly by rolling his eyes at Sherlock, following a stern look.

His older brother let out an annoyed huff before beginning, "Sherlock, someday you will understand the importance of dressing for the part."

"Sherlock, someday you will understand the importance of dressing for the part," Sherlock mimicked back in a high-pitched nasally voice.

Mycroft gave his younger brother an exaggerated sigh, "I am only suggesting that someday there will be something important enough to you that will require you to try and put effort into something," his smile dropped ever so slightly, and his eyes bore that same sadness. "It is my only wish that you find whatever that may be."

_Whatever that may be._

_It is my only wish._

As if he cared about anything more than appearances.

"Get out of my head!" Sherlock banged his hands against his temples before dropping them to clench the bathroom sink in front of him. He closed his eyes at his brother's words. That conversation had only been a little over a year ago. It felt like a lifetime ago, he thought to himself, opening his eyes to look at his reflection in the dingy mirror in front of him. The hunger must be getting to him if he was already hearing Mycroft's voice in his head after only three days.

He'd used his first two days back to acclimate to being on his own again. He'd gone back to his old hunting grounds to make himself visible again. He deliberately made sure he was noticed (at a safe distance) by some of the old drug runners - time to start getting his name back to Volkov.

He quickly splashed some water on his face and dried it with a paper towel before exiting the Chinese restaurant's bathroom. The smell of food made his stomach growl loudly, so Sherlock made his way out into the fresh air to get away from the temptation. Just a few months ago, Sherlock had survived on sporadic eating habits. Now, he was frustrated at how he had allowed himself to grow accustomed to regular meals. It would only make it more difficult for him to adapt to life on the street.

Tonight, the night of day three was important. He'd be going back to his old warehouse. Sherlock tightened his grip on his backpack as he navigated the sidewalks of the busy London area. He slipped into an alley and headed to sit behind a dumpster about halfway down the small alley. He opened his pack to give one last inspection. Everything had to go off without a hitch this evening. If Boris or any of Volkov's other meat-headed goons that would be guarding the door didn't believe him, he'd be gone before he even crossed the threshold. What few clothes he had taken were rolled up to cover his utility knife and copy of _Anna Karenina_. Sherlock thumbed through the pages to ensure everything was in order. He paused when a slip of paper and a couple of tenners fell out towards the back. Sherlock picked up the money to inspect it and then grabbed the note.

_Don't blow it all in one go. Get yourself something to eat. Be safe. - Greg_

Sherlock read the short note a couple of times, thumbing the paper while he did so. Sherlock smiled at the man's messy scrawl. How was Lestrade able to sneak this in without him noticing? Sherlock wasn't able to drop the smile at the other man's gesture. He gave a silent thanks to the police Sergeant before pocketing the money. There was a chip stand between here and the warehouse that he'd stop at to get him something to tide him over. He looked at the note one more time, Lestrade was waiting for him, Lestrade _would_ wait for him, he reminded himself. He neatly folded the note and opened his backpack and felt for the slit he had made in on the inside, pocketing the note away safely.

Sherlock exited the alley with a new bounce to his step as he headed towards the chip stand. The late afternoon was just starting to fade into the early evening, thankfully dropping the late July temperatures to more bearable ones, which slowly filled the streets. The line for the chip stand was not too long yet; he only waited five minutes before he was given a fresh basket of steaming hot chips that made his stomach growl in appreciation. He ate each fry slowly, appreciating Lestrade and his thoughtfulness as he made his way to his destination

Finally, just as the sun set, he arrived at the warehouse. He took his time throwing his chip basket away in the trash to allow a group of skateboarders to pass. Once they rounded the corner, Sherlock slipped through the usual break in the chain-link fence and made his way towards the side door near the building's back. With a deep breath, he gave the typical knock pattern before losing his nerve, and then took a large step back from the door.

This was it - chin up.

The chains bolting the door could be heard coming off, and the door opened, revealing a stunned Boris in the doorframe.

"I heard rumors you'd turned back up," the deep Russian voice was less than enthusiastic. "Pity."

"I missed you too, Boris," Sherlock told him with a large, false smile. "Now, let me in," he deadpanned.

Boris's hand came up and halted Sherlock in the middle of his chest, blocking his entrance into the inside.

"Not so fast, little Shezza," Boris crossed his arms over his chest. "Where have you been?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I got picked up," he told him, trying to sound disappointed with himself.

Boris instantly tensed and bent down to look him in the eye, "You let the police grab you up, boy?"

Sherlock shot him a sarcastic glare, "It's not like I planned for it, obviously," he grumbled. "They made me go to rehab," he pouted, diverting his gaze to his feet, and kicked at nothing on the ground.

"And now, little Shezza wants back," Boris mocked.

Sherlock looked up at the burly Russian with a pleading look.

"Volkov does not take kindly to defection," Boris reminded him.

Please, Boris," Sherlock pleaded and threw in some slight hand tremors for good measure.

Boris gave him a disapproving frown, "Say pretty please," he smirked.

Sherlock frowned at Boris and the two locked glances for several moments before Sherlock let out a sigh.

" _Pretty, please,_ " he bit out.

Boris smirked at Sherlock's answer and stepped aside to let him in.

"Welcome home, Shezza."

* * *

Greg stomped into the narcotics floor on Monday morning in a terrible mood and immediately settled in at his desk. He'd gotten little to no sleep over the weekend, unable to stop thinking of every possible scenario where something could have gone wrong. By the time Monday rolled around, Greg was running on exhaustion and caffeine. The combination made him jittery and difficult to focus on simple tasks, and he hated that feeling. It made him feel out of control, which was the opposite of what he needed to be in right now.

He gathered up a stack of papers on his desk and started rifling through them. It was a list of various meeting sites that Sherlock had given to them with their typical meeting times. Fingers crossed nothing had changed too drastically, and they'd be able to start compiling the real, hard evidence that they would need to lock Volkov and his associates up for a long time. Then, the words of his new mysterious friend began to play in the back of his head.

_What if I told you, Sergeant Lestrade, what if I told you that there is more to Volkov than meets the eye._

That was something else he'd need to figure out. What else would come raining down on them when they brought Volkov down?

"Did Sherlock make it out okay?" Inspector Jackson's voice startled him from his thoughts, making Greg jump and drop the stack of papers he was holding.

"Uh, yeah," Greg nodded, trying to shake off his jitters. Quite frankly, he was surprised the man was still talking to him after Greg had threatened him last week. "He took off Friday night. If everything goes to plan, he should already be back in his old warehouse, tomorrow at the latest."

"Good, good," Jackson nodded while looking around the narcotics department's bullpen, holding a coffee cup in his hand. "Andrew Ryan was released just a little bit ago," he told Greg, almost like he was trying to strike up a friendly, casual conversation.

Greg looked up, startled. "Andrew Ryan, the known Volkov associate who wasn't scheduled to be released for another month at the soonest?" he asked for clarification, eyebrows raised in alarm at the information.

Jackson nodded, "One and the same. Apparently, someone pulled some strings and he was able to get out early," he finished with a shrug.

_Great_ , Greg thought sarcastically to himself. _Just fantastic_. Now, there was one more cog to the wheel that they didn't need.

"Had a fancy town car waiting for him and everything," Jackson revealed, which grabbed Greg's attention.

"A town car?"

"Volkov is known to be a high roller, likes to take care of those closest to him. Anyway, we placed a tracker in the heel of one of his shoes. Hopefully, he won't dump them in the meantime. Maybe we'll get lucky, and he'll head straight to Volkov."

"Yeah, maybe," Greg pretended to agree with the Inspector, but something was nagging at him. A thought in the back of his head that was struggling to make its presence known.

"Well, I'd thought you'd like to know," Jackson told him, taking a sip from his coffee cup. "Let me know if you hear anything from Sherlock," he instructed with a nod to his head before taking off towards his office.

"Will do," Greg told him, hiding his rude hand gesture behind the safety of his cubicle walls, as the man was leaving.

He waited until the man was locked back in his office before pulling out a stack of papers from his desk drawer that he thought he was done with. Greg rifled through them until he found the small paperclipped pile he was looking for, the Andrew Ryan interview. Something had seemed off about it on his first glance through, although he'd never been able to pinpoint exactly what it was at the time. Greg looked at Ryan's mugshot and then scanned through the arresting officer's report. Apparently, Ryan just waltzed up to an undercover Yarder and offered him an eightball of coke. Not the wisest move for someone supposedly close enough to Volkov to warrant a town car picking you up. Then to be mysteriously released the same week the Yard's narcotics department launched their sting investigation on Volkov, things weren't adding up.

Greg took a sip of his coffee and continued to scan through the rest of Ryan's file. He supposed that it wasn't uncommon to get released early for good behavior; the man only had a month left on his sentence, and apparently had no priors. It might have just been a coincidence.

_The universe is rarely so lazy,_ Sherlock's voice came through his own and was echoed by his new mysterious friend's as well.

Greg drummed his fingers on his desk, trying to make up his mind before slamming the rest of his coffee back. It was time to get some answers.

* * *

Sherlock scrunched his face and stretched his back as he woke up disoriented in a small, dank room on top of a tattered mattress. _The warehouse_ , his mind finally supplied once the veil of sleep lifted. He got up from the small, flattened mattress, grimacing at how sore his entire body was, finding himself missing Lestrade's couch all the more. He reached for his backpack and fumbled around until he found Lestrade's note still safely tucked away, he smiled at the physical reminder he had of the Sergeant. He took a few moments to read it before storing it back in his pack to stay safely hidden. It was nice to have something to ground him, to remind him that he had something to look forward to. With that thought, he grabbed his pack and headed out of his room in the warehouse. He wasn't sure what time it was exactly, but given that most of the other drug runners were still passed out meant that it was probably reasonable early.

The sound of the garage doors opening on the opposite end of the building grabbed his attention, and he decided to head that direction. The building itself was exactly how you would picture a run-down warehouse. Sherlock assumed it had been built during one of the world wars to manufacture something and had fallen into disrepair. Parts to the exterior were brick, while the rest were made from sheet metal that rattled when the wind picked up.

The truck bay had a large nondescript white lorry pull in. Boris and one of the other guards, Nickoli, were waiting patiently with guns at the ready. Sherlock snuck undetected to hide behind a few old crates that had been left behind. He quickly dug into his backpack and pulled out a small handheld camera that he had been able to sneak in and hit record. He stayed quiet while the camera captured the delivery of two crates of Volkov's finest. Sherlock tried to zoom in to get closer to catch everyone's faces.

"Open them," Boris instructed, pointing his gun to the head of the delivery driver.

The driver nodded, unphased by the threat that the two armed Russian's posed. He cracked open each of the crates to reveal their contents to the two overly muscular goons.

Nickoli inspected each crate thoroughly, checking to make sure they were not being shorted, and nodded back to Boris, who then dismissed the driver with a sharp nod.

The whole interaction took less than fifteen minutes. Sherlock waited until the lorry exited the warehouse before shutting off the camera. Boris and Nickoli were racking the crates up on a dolly to store them in their safe-guarded locked room. He didn't have much time before they would be making their way out of the room. Sherlock crept off back the way he came, hoping to avoid the two brutes just yet. He opened up the camera again and began filming the other runners' living conditions that lived here. At this location, there were only ten to twelve, including himself. Most were currently passed out from drugs, hunger, and exhaustion wherever they could find a place. A few were still in the throws of whatever trip they were on. Sherlock remembered his time here all too well. Coherent enough to be ashamed by your actions, but not enough to be able to stop the cycle from repeating itself. He shut the camera off once he felt like he got enough footage of the inside for the time being. Part of him felt guilty for the invasion of privacy against the other occupants. Having had been in their positions before, he only hoped that they would have the opportunity to seek out help once this was over.

There were a couple of new faces, but mostly they were all the same. Sherlock felt sorry for them all, especially knowing that most of them would not get any relief until Volkov was arrested, and his drug ring dismantled. He remembered what it was like to be stuck in the never-ending downwards spiral. At first, it seems like a no-brainer when you are offered a cut of the cash or a cut of the product. Money equaled food, clothes, necessities. Only the call to keep the product usually won out - every time.

Sherlock planned to not let that happen to him this time. He had so much waiting for him after this was over. Lestrade, a home, a future that he had given up on before running away to London. Lestrade had already done so much to help him, and he missed the security the other man provided for him. The comfort that he had someone who didn't care about his past, who saw through that and saw Sherlock for who he was, and even then still didn't run screaming. Sherlock smiled at that thought.

The deep Russian voices of Boris and Nickoli came into his earshot, and he looked around for a spot to stash his camera for now. It wouldn't help the cause at all to be caught this soon. He spotted a crack in the wall and settled for that for the time being, and used various items and trash that were around to cover the hole up.

"Ah, little Shezza," Boris's voice snarked, having spotted him after he had righted himself.

Sherlock threw a glare back to the two goons.

"Now, now, is that how you look at your old friends?" Boris questioned him, shaking his head.

Nickoli came up behind him and looped an arm around his neck before dropping him to the floor and dragging Sherlock along behind him.

"See, now you hurt Nickoli's feelings when you left," Boris told Sherlock, clearly unsympathetic at the sight of the teen's reddening face from being drug at such an awkward angle. "None of his other punching bags talk back to him in our mother tongue," Boris smirked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let me go!" Sherlock spat at the brute in Russian, having difficulty breathing through Nickoli's tight grip around his throat.

Nickoli chuckled, dropping Sherlock with a pat to the top of his head. Sherlock fell onto his backside, unable to turn to brace himself against the drop, coughing once he was finally freed before bringing himself back up to a standing position.

"Boris thinks you sung for the police, told them everything," Nickoli told him with a point towards Boris and then turned back towards the small side room by the door where they had ended up. "I told him that you were far too obnoxious for anyone to take you seriously," he finished, cracking open a bottle of water, and leveling a severe look at Sherlock.

"Let's just say that the rehab facility they sent me to won't be missing my smart mouth. I doubt they'll even file a missing person report," Sherlock confirmed.

"That better be the case, Shezza," Boris threatened, bending down to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Because if I find out you've gone and something - "

"I haven't," Sherlock interrupted the Russian and stared him back down.

"Good," Boris replied, condescendingly patting his cheek. Nickoli nodded his head in agreement. "We're sending you back out with Jerry this afternoon," Boris started up again. "You'll be with him the rest of the week to get you back into the swing of things."

"We phoned Volkov to let him know his precious favorite child had finally returned home," Nickoli started up sarcastically when Boris finished. "He'll send a town car for you on Saturday to take you to his place for a reunion dinner," he sneered, taking another sip from his water bottle.

Sherlock nodded. That was good. He didn't expect to be invited to Volkov's place so soon. That would give him the rest of the week to continue gathering evidence of the warehouse and find a way to pass it off to Lestrade before the weekend.

Volkov would be a whole different challenge. He was smart, unlike the two goons in front of him. Hopefully, he'd be able to continue the charade with Volkov.

Either way, he was one step closer to going back home.

* * *

Greg spent two whole days searching for Andrew Ryan, only to turn up empty-handed. Maybe even less than empty-handed. The Andrew Ryan that had been serving time simply did not exist. None of the Andrew Ryans in the system matched the mugshot to this guy, the address and phone numbers he'd given were all bogus. Even the number he used to call for legal help had been disconnected. Now, he knew that Volkov was wealthy and powerful, with maybe someone even more wealthy and powerful pulling his strings. Still, given all of that, it took a whole lot of effort to just magic someone into existence. However, there was one person that came to mind that possibly had that ability.

As if anticipating the perfect entrance, a sleek town car pulled up, and the same chauffeur that had driven him here from the Yard last week got out to let out his new friend.

Greg stood up from where he had sat on the Diogenes Club's white stone ledge, where he'd been waiting for his new friend with the umbrella to arrive.

The man raised a surprised eyebrow after noticing him, tucked his umbrella up under his arm, and made his way to meet Greg at the small patio's top.

"Sergeant Lestrade, what can I do for you on this fine day?" the stranger-not-so-stranger greeted.

"Andrew Ryan," Greg blurted out, eager to get to the point. "Who is he?"

The man gave a small shrug, "While I'm flattered you think I am omniscient in my knowledge of every person in the city, I assure you that is not the case."

"Come off it!" Greg yelled at the man in front of him, clearly startling him over his outburst. "Sorry," Greg apologized to the man in the suit. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell, I've just been so stressed over everything. Now, I've got some mysterious person that just appeared out of nowhere to worry about, too," he explained, shaking his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose at the same time. "I didn't mean to take it out on you."

The man didn't reply, but instead reached into the inside pocket of his suit and produced a cigarette package, offering one to Greg.

"Thanks," Greg replied, taking the lighter from the man as well. He was slightly confused over the gesture, but all of that faded away when he inhaled his first cigarette in years.

"The other man did the same with his own cigarette, and the two stood on the stoop of the Club in silence for a moment.

"Have you heard from Sherlock?" Umbrella Boy asked him, breaking the silence.

Greg shook his head, "No, but surveillance caught him yesterday with someone doing a deal at a park on the city's outskirts. We looked at the pattern of places he gave us and will hopefully find him at the next stop this evening," Greg told him. "If the pattern holds, I'll be part of the undercover crew Friday."

"Are you sure that's wise?" the man asked.

"It's the plan," Greg replied, put off by the other man's question. "I'm supposed to gauge the kid once a week, make sure he's keeping it together," he informed him, but the words felt hollow, and he frowned. "Although, the kid is probably holding it together than I am," he said bitterly, and put what was left of his cigarette out. When the man offered him another one, he eagerly accepted.

"You care for Sherlock," the man stated, staring at him curiously, almost as if he were surprised by the idea, with half of his first cigarette left dangling between his fingers.

Greg chuckled, "What gave it away?" he asked the man sarcastically.

The man seemed to be turning something over in his mind, and Greg focused on enjoying his cig and let the other man think.

"You don't have to worry about Andrew Ryan," the man finally supplied, stomping out his cigarette.

"Why?" Greg asked sharply. "What's he like, some top-secret undercover agent of the Umbrella Squad?" he asked, laughing at his own joke.

The man looked at Greg as if he had just eaten something sour. "Or, MI6," the man informed him, leveling a dissatisfied look at Greg.

Greg let his cigarette drop from his fingers and gaped at the other man. "What? Are you serious!" he questioned the man with a shocked expression on his face before recovering enough to stomp out his forgotten cigarette.

"The agent that you have come to know as Andrew Ryan was originally sent to gain the confidence of Volkov. His mission was diverted when he uncovered a possible link between Volkov and the police," the man was staring at him with an intense expression on his face, and Greg gulped nervously, feeling like this was something he shouldn't be hearing. "He had himself arrested to get what information he could from the inside," the man carried on. "I had him released when Sherlock succeeded in being accepted at his old hang-out."

"Wait," Greg interrupted, startled at the revelation. "A link between Volkov and the police? Like someone _inside_ the Yard is working for him?" Greg was floored. He'd been working with the narcotics team for weeks, he couldn't pinpoint a single person that might be working for Volkov.

"Best to stay vigilant," came the man's vague answer.

"Right," Greg started but didn't know where to take it from there. "So, the town car was yours?"

"I'll leave you some mystery. It'd be a shame if I had to explain everything to you," he smiled at Greg.

_Prat_ , Greg thought. "So you had him go back to Volkov now? To what? Help Sherlock? Protect him somehow?"

The man's only reply was to lift an eyebrow at him.

"You care for Sherlock," Greg was finally realizing that maybe having this strange man as a backup wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

"What gave it away?" the man parroted his own words back to him, causing Greg to smile.

"Alright, do I at least get to know your name?" Greg asked curiously. "There as to be something other than Umbrella Boy that I can call you."

The man smiled, "That will be up to Sherlock, although, I'm sure he'll be just as fine with your moniker," the man told him, reaching back into his suit jacket, but this time producing a card.

Greg stared at it curiously. It was a rather plain card - cream in color with typed black lettering that read _MH_ with a phone number under it.

"In case you need me," Greg nodded and tucked the card into his wallet. "Now, if you'll excuse me," the man told Greg and indicated towards the Club doors.

"Right, thanks for the information, and the smoke," Greg added as an afterthought.

"Anytime, Sergeant," the man told him with a nod before turning back into the building.

Greg turned back to head towards his own car, feeling marginally better that they had someone on the inside to help keep an eye on Sherlock. Actually, that was a huge relief. The only other person Greg would want to guard the kid if it couldn't be him would be an MI6 operative.

Maybe, just maybe, Greg thought, this would go their way after all.

* * *

Greg let the newspaper he had been reading fall to his lap as he lit up another cigarette. It was a beautiful sunny day; the weather was still warm but starting to cool down with the promise of Autumn right around the corner. Greg had only been at this particular park bench for the last thirty minutes; taking a long drags from his cigarette, he glanced around the park. It officially made one whole week since he'd last seen or heard from Sherlock. Of course, it'd only taken five of those days for Greg to take up smoking again. He'd tried to kick the habit multiple times, mostly at Hannah's demands, but it always reappeared during stressful times. No kind of stress like sending your kid back into the arms of one of the most dangerous drug lords in London's history, he thought while taking another long drag from his cigarette. It was either smoking or drinking... at least the nicotine didn't dull his senses as scotch did. There wasn't time for dulled senses or responses, not when Sherlock's life was on the line.

Laughter to his right caught his attention, and he smiled when he saw a father and his young son kicking a ball back and forth to each other. He could remember playing football with his dad in the park until he was old enough to join some beginner leagues. Football had always been a nice escape for him, especially after his mum had left them and things were just too much. Maybe he'd take Sherlock to a match once all this nonsense got sorted out. He snorted, imagining the kid at a game. Maybe Sherlock would surprise him.

What was becoming more and more surprising to Greg was how quickly Sherlock had wormed his way into his affections. In the two and a half months that he had known Sherlock, the kid had become _his_. The first time he had that thought was three weeks ago when Jackson had unexpectedly shown up at Springhill and made everything flip upside down. Since then, that seed had taken root and was slowly growing every day. Hell, last night, he even tried to research adoption before becoming so anxious that he went through half a pack of cigarettes before going to bed.

Movement from across the park grabbed his attention, and Greg found himself breathing a sigh of relief when a shock of familiar dark hair came into view. He took another drag of his cigarette before picking his paper back up again. He kept peering over the top to keep an eye on Sherlock. The kid was with someone else, but they appeared to be getting along easily. They both had backpacks and were waiting for someone. Greg watched as a pair of undercover officers jogged past the kid before signaling to another group pretending to have a picnic to take a couple of pictures. Finally, Sherlock and his friend were approached by a young man that appeared to be in his mid-twenties, dressed very preppy. College kid, Greg assumed as he watched the transaction between the two. The whole thing was captured by the undercover officers and was over quickly, letting Greg breathe a sigh of relief.

He took a victory sip out of his travel cup of tea before lighting up one last smoke. He'd have to report back to the Yard soon, but he needed to watch the unruly mop of dark hair exit the park before he could head back himself. Greg just needed that extra reassurance that the last time he saw the kid, he'd know that Sherlock was okay. What he wouldn't give to say to hell with it all and grab the kid and take off, out of London, maybe even out of England. Surely none of this was worth Sherlock's safety. Not Volkov, not even the person pulling Volkov's strings. Something told Greg that Sherlock would be less than thrilled with his plan, but a man could dream.

Greg allowed the paper to fall and let out a long exhale of smoke as the kid and his friend left the park and headed left. According to Sherlock's intelligence reports, their meet up locations changed every ten days, so it never seemed that they were at one particular spot every week at the same time. At least they figured out one of the park schedules, and hopefully, the other locations would fall into the place. Greg stood up from his spot on the bench and headed out of the park, trying to mentally fortify himself for a possible ten days before knowing if Sherlock was alive or not. This month would most definitely turn what dark brown hair he had left grey.

"Those things will kill you," a voice called out from a nearby, stopping Greg before he made it to his car.

Greg let out a surprised huff and squashed what was left of his cigarette butt on the ground, turning his head to the right to look down the alley, spying a familiar teen who was lurking in the shadows. He turned the rest of the way to meet Sherlock.

"They're still mildly better than what you're peddling," Greg pointed out, unable to keep from smiling at the younger man's presence.

Sherlock shrugged and looked down at his feet. It hadn't taken much time for the kid to start to lose weight, and the sight of that combined with the dark circles under his eyes and ratted, baggy clothes made Greg's heart twinge in his chest.

"I haven't, you know..." Sherlock trailed off, still staring at his feet.

Greg frowned, not picking up on the point that Sherlock was trying to get across. "Haven't?"

Sherlock looked up with a face that was mixed between mildly irritated and mildly embarrassed. "I haven't indulged in any of my previous habits," he informed Greg nervously.

Greg didn't bother stopping the smile that spread across his face. "Good," he told the kid proudly, grinning even more when Sherlock smiled at his praise. "You doing okay? You look thin. Let me get some money together for you," Greg started digging through his wallet for some cash.

"I'm maintaining," Sherlock started, and thanked him when he passed over a couple of twenties. "It has been going easier than I had expected. Volkov wants to meet Saturday," he trailed off, uncertain as to how Greg would respond.

Greg tried his best to remain calm on the outside, for Sherlock's sake, but on the inside, he had gone cold. This was it, if Sherlock could pull off planting the listening devices he'd been sent with, they'd be one step in the clear.

"And you'll be safe? You'll be stealthy about this and not get caught?" he just needed to hear the kid reassure him one more time.

"More stealthy than your undercover brigade at the park," Sherlock threw back with an eye-roll.

"Oi! You wouldn't have had any idea about them if you hadn't had spent all of last week trapped in meetings with them," Greg argued back, pointing at the kid.

Sherlock started chuckling at him, and Greg returned the eye-roll. "Arse," he shook his head, realizing that the kid was trying to get him worked up. "I don't need any more lip from you, not if you want a say about where we end up moving, and where you go to school."

"Is the school thing really all that necessary?" Sherlock tried to argue vaguely, but Greg gave him his best _not-gonna-happen_ look. "Fine," he agreed dramatically.

They shared a look, each knowing that it was time to leave, but neither quite ready to say those words.

"I miss you, kid," Greg told him the truth. The last week without Sherlock there to argue with had only highlighted a part in his life that he didn't realize he was missing.

"I miss your chicken parm," Sherlock told him with a smile.

Greg chuckled, muttering "Arse," under his breath for good measure. "Stick to the plan, and this will all be over with soon," he promised.

Sherlock nodded and tightened his grip on his backpack. "Saturday at five o'clock, Trafalgar Square," he said almost too quickly for Greg to pick out the individual words.

"What happens then," he asked, curiously.

"Volkov is sending a town car for me. But I was thinking of showing up early, just in case you were going to be in that area," Sherlock shrugged, trying to suggest casually.

"Sherlock," Greg started hesitantly. "I don't know if that is a good idea. We shouldn't even be doing this," he waved his hands back and forth between them. "I can't put you in any more unnecessary danger than you're already in."

"We can be cautious!" There are places that even the CC cameras can't pick up," Sherlock started arguing, but Greg held up his hands to stop him.

"This wasn't part of the plan, kid," Greg was just as upset about his decision. "You said you would stick to the plan, that you wouldn't go swanning off, remember?" he pleaded with the kid to not make this any harder than it had to be.

Sherlock deflated at that, and it took everything in Greg to grab him and fall back on his leaving the country plan.

"We've made it a week, yeah?" Greg tried to stay positive. "And you know, now that you mention it, I might have some business that would mean I'd be driving through your area on Saturday," he finished with a shrug of his shoulders, causing Sherlock to give him a small smile.

Sherlock's smile didn't stay for long, and soon he was ducking his head again. Greg waited patiently to hear the kid out, trying to give him time to come up with the words he needed to say.

"I-It's just that-" Sherlock kept starting and stopping, trying to work through the thought on his own. "Nevermind," he gave up with a sigh.

"Sherlock -"

"No, really. It's just a bit of sentiment is all," he interrupted Greg. I should go. I have another meet up that I'll need to catch the tube for if I'm to make it on time."

"Right... Go, go," Greg showed him and stood off to the alley's side to let Sherlock pass. "Be careful, yeah?"

Sherlock paused and gave him a brief hug, resting his chin on Greg's shoulder, and Greg responded to the hug quickly. He was surprised to find that the kid was turning out to be pretty affectionate. The hug didn't last long and SHerlock broke it off quickly, giving Greg a small smile.

"Always," Sherlock told him with a wink and took off.

"Arse," Greg shook his head at the kid's cavalier behavior.

He turned out of the alley to finish the short walk to his car and went to pull out another smoke for his walk back. Only he frowned when instead of finding the anticipated packet of smokes, he felt something hard and plastic, and something else he couldn't identify. He could have _sworn_ he had half a pa- _Sherlock_. Oh, that kid would be the end of him for sure. When he pulled out the contents of his jacket pocket, he was surprised to find aa videocassette and a bag of a white substance that Greg assumed to be coke. _Atta boy_ , he thought, pocketing the evidence. He patted down his pockets one more time to make sure that the kid hadn't moved his smokes somewhere else and sighed when he came up empty-handed. Greg took a minute to compose himself before taking a deep, steadying breath and took off back towards the Yard.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And we're back! Real-life can be such a pain sometimes. Buckle in for another angsty chapter as our confrontation with Volkov comes to ahead. Mad props to my fantastic beta, Hucklebarry, I couldn't have finished this chapter out without you. Thanks for sticking with this story, and as always, your reviews make my day!

**Chapter 14**

Greg threw his car into park a few blocks from Trafalgar Square. Even though it was possibly not the wisest decision to be seen in the same area as Sherlock, he just wanted to be sure that the kid got off okay and things didn't go wrong from the start. As he turned the ignition off, he took a moment to calm himself before exiting the car. Trafalgar Square was a bustling tourist attraction filled with people enjoying the sites in the early evening, making it the perfect spot to hide away or catch a ride with someone without being too conspicuous. Greg fidgeted with his keys in his pocket as he made his way down the crowded sidewalk that finally spilled onto the plaza.

He spotted Sherlock sitting on the ledge to the fountain fairly quickly. The awkward kid stood out slightly, but mostly because he was glowering at anyone that got near to him. Greg smiled and shook his head, making his way toward Sherlock's general area, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. There was a small group of kids that looked to be about Sherlock's age, milling around the fountain, talking, laughing, getting to be stupid teenagers. Then there was Sherlock, who looked so out of place next to them. Greg could see the kid was eyeing them with disdain at their rambunctious laughter. He only hoped that Sherlock would find a group of friends to connect to; hell, Greg would just for him to have one good friend just so that Sherlock could know what it was like to have that kind of camaraderie with someone. Until then, Greg would do what he could to be that person for Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced away from the group of teenagers and spotted Greg from his spot at the fountain. Greg nodded towards Sherlock but remained where he was, not wanting to give himself away if Volkov's men were there. Sherlock pursed his lips but nodded back at Greg. The kid looked nervous, and Greg was sure he didn't look much better, but they needed to do it this way for now. It was one night, and Sherlock was confident in his abilities to get in and out of Volkov's home without harm to himself, so Greg chose to believe him too.

Something grabbed Sherlock's attention and Greg turned back to see a black town car parked at the plaza's edge. Sherlock turned back to Greg and offered a small smile that Greg returned. The last few months with Sherlock replayed through his mind in a blur. There was so much still left that Greg wanted to say, but instead, all he could do was give the kid an encouraging nod and hope that would be enough. Sherlock grabbed his backpack and headed off for the town car, trying to appear oblivious to being watched by a Police Sergeant. Greg was close to halfway between the fountain and the car, so it didn't look overly conspicuous when Sherlock veered off to avoid a group of tourists, giving the kid an opportunity to make a show of accidentally bumping into him.

"Sorry, sir," he apologized loud enough for others in the area to hear.

"It's fine," Greg replied slowly, not exactly sure what the kid was getting at with that maneuver. He watched as Sherlock made his way out of the Square and slid into the black car. This was it.

The kid would be fine. Sherlock would be fine, he kept repeating to himself over and over until the town car was out of sight.

Now, with nothing left to do, he opted to head back out to the Yard to monitor the Volkov house's surveillance. He just needed to know that the kid was able to get in and out okay. When he reached his car, he pulled his car keys out from his pants pocket and frowned when he found a stray cigarette in there. It would have been nice to have that yesterday, he thought, and then closed his eyes in an annoyed realization, reaching to pat the inside of his jacket. He pulled out his missing half carton of smokes that the kid had nicked off of him yesterday.

"Oh, you sneaky little bastard," he laughed as he got situated in his car. When he flipped open the lid, he pulled out a note that had what he assumed to be Sherlock's, surprisingly neat, cursive on the inside.

_Don't go through the rest of the pack tonight. I'll be safe. Promise. - Sherlock_

Greg read the note repeatedly until the letters all blurred together. He carefully folded the message up and slipped it into his breast pocket, giving him some hope as he headed back to the Yard for the evening.

* * *

Sherlock warily eyed the two brutes in the front seat of the car as they drove through the streets of London towards Vokov's personal home. He was surprised to be chauffeured by two of Volkov's personal guards. He found it slightly worrisome that Volkov thought that it was necessary to send two of his strongest to collect a somewhat scrawny teenager. Hopefully, it didn't mean anything too dire, and regardless, it was all beyond Sherlock's control for the time being.

He directed his attention towards the window and watched as the city passed in a blur. In the quiet of the car, he found his thoughts drifting towards Lestrade again. While he was glad that Lestrade was able to see him off, he found himself wishing for more. Unable to get much sleep the previous night, Sherlock had plenty of time to think about what life would be like with Lestrade after this was over. What kind of man Lestrade would be, what kind of direct correlation that would have on himself having a dad - Sherlock winced at the thought, not because he abhorred the idea, but because he hadn't anticipated becoming too attached to the Police Sergeant. Now, he had a taste of what having a dad was actually like, someone who he could readily rely on, who had _earned_ the title of dad. Sherlock found that he wasn't eager to let him go.

Then there was Lestrade to consider. Did the man even want that kind of permanent attachment with Sherlock? Yes, Lestrade had been quick to jump to the guardianship, and he was currently searching for a larger flat just to accommodate Sherlock for the future. But what happens when this is over when there isn't Volkov to worry about and undercover work to keep himself occupied with? What happens when the excitement is over, and Lestrade got to know the real Sherlock? Would he still be there then, Sherlock thought as the car rolled to a stop outside an impressively ornate brick house.

The house appeared to have three stories, the brick, and the trim all done in white with the occasional black accent. The front garden was manicured to perfection with deep red rose bushes climbing a trellis that framed the front door. Sherlock had never been to Volkov's personal home before. He'd been to warehouses, office buildings, and other smaller areas where his deductions had led to the loss of several of Volkov's men; but never had he been extended an invite to the man's personal home. Gauging from the other neighbors' homes, he doubted that they realized a high-class drug dealer lived amongst them.

The two guards in the front seat exited the car and the one on his side opened the door for him. "Out," the guard instructed in Russian.

Sherlock obeyed the command and was curious as to whether the guard knew he was able to understand him or not. Perhaps Nickoli had slipped in passing, or the man simply assumed Sherlock also hailed from the same country as him. Either way, Sherlock decided it was best to keep his mouth shut for the time being.

Just before entering the front door, the guard behind Sherlock pulled him to a stop by his backpack while the other guard continued towards the front door.

"Your bag," he demanded in English. This one, surprising, had no trace of a Russian accent.

Sherlock slid his backpack off of his shoulder and dangled it by his index finger for the guard to take. The guard reached for the bag, only for Sherlock to let it slide off of his finger and hit the drive with a thud. He supposed he shouldn't be winding the thugs up too much, but sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

"Thin ice," the man threatened him, shaking his head. He reached over to rifle through the bag.

Sherlock looked down at the balding head of the man. American if the accent was anything to go by, former military experience, divorced, had two cats, doing this job for the money, not the drugs.

"Arms out, spread your legs," the guard ordered gruffly. Sherlock obeyed while the man patted him down, looking for any contraband that could do harm to Volkov on the inside. Once satisfied, he got up and shoved Sherlock towards the front door where his Russian counterpart was waiting.

Sherlock looked around the grand entryway and was greeted with clean white marble floors and decorative blood red roses in a gold vase. The vase and flowers were placed on top of one of those dainty stands in the middle of the entryway that was only big enough to hold the flowers.

Russian voices could be heard to his right where the grand dining room was, that of the Russian guard that brought him here and the silky voice of one Alexander Volkov. Sherlock found a fascination with the roses placed in the center of the room and went to inspect them closer, the American guard watching him closely, remaining at his spot by the front door. He picked up the vase somewhat carelessly, inspecting the gold patterns that went across the ceramic, intricate piece, trying to wait for the perfect opportunity to plant the first bug.

"Careful, Shezza," Volkov's svelte voice traveled across the hall. Sherlock pretended to stumble slightly, giving himself the opportunity to place the small listening device in the vase before righting it back on the stand. "That vase is worth more money than you've brought into this organization."

Sherlock stepped away from the expensive piece and threw a confident smirk in Volkov's direction. Showtime.

"My boy," Volkov greeted, crossing the entryway to give Sherlock a welcoming embrace. "I heard you had a bit of a stumble," he chided, patting Sherlock on the cheek before directing him to the dining room where he came from.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed, "Blasted police," he gruffed.

"All that matters is you know where you belong," Volkov affirmed Sherlock, following him into the dining area.

Another person stepped just out of Sherlock's line of sight and he turned back just in time to catch another younger man, approximately Sherlock's height and hair color, wearing clothes that were similar to his own. He met the American guard who passed off Sherlock's backpack to the man. Sherlock felt his stomach go cold at the sight of his look-alike. The younger man gave him a sad look as he sat in a chair in the entryway, waiting on instructions for his next move. They were going to try and pull one over on the police. He slowed his steps but was shoved further into the room by Volkov behind him, so he turned back to face the room where he had been led.

"It's just a shame that you decided you belonged on the wrong side," Volkov's voice dropped to a threatening level.

Sherlock quickly swiveled back to Volkov but was stopped by that of the fist of the Russian guard. He felt himself begin to fall but the world went black before he hit the ground.

* * *

Greg got off of the lift and made his way to the conference room where the knew the narcotics surveillance team would be eagerly awaiting the bugs that Sherlock had to go live. Greg told himself that he would just stay long enough to make sure that the kid got out okay. He was exhausted after these last couple of weeks from hell and needed to try and take a night to get his bearings in check. His stomach growled at the smell of pizza wafting through the doors of the conference room, reminding him that he hadn't had much to eat today. He entered the room to find Jackson, one of the narcotics Sergeants, and surprisingly, Mike Stamford.

"Mike!" he greeted excitedly and extended a hand that the other man took eagerly. "Didn't expect to see you up here, mate."

"Well, I ran into the pizza delivery chap downstairs," he explained after finishing his bite of pizza. "Earned me a slice for bringing it up here for you guys."

"Rightfully so," Greg agreed, grabbing his own slice of pepperoni. "It's nice to see a friendly face up here," he told the doctor, smirking at Jackson when the man turned to give him a glare from his spot at the table. "Do we have anything yet?" he asked the Inspector who was seated next to the two-way radio that was on, waiting on a report from the undercover officers that were on the ground.

"Sherlock just entered the house. We have undercover agents that are using the guise of landscapers working on a house down from Volkov's. None of the bugs have gone live yet," Jackson informed him before turning back to the other Sergeant, effectively ignoring Greg.

"Sherlock?" Mike asked him curiously. "As in your kid?"

"Yeah, well, he's not technically speaking _mine_ , but," Greg paused looking for the right words, nervously scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand. "It's a bit of a story," he settled on with a shrug of his shoulders.

"You'll have to tell me it some time," Mike told him with a smile. "He seemed like a real bright kid when I met him in the lab."

"A little too bright for his own good, but yeah, he's a good kid," Greg replied, unable to stop the smile from spreading on his face.

The sound of static flared to life through the radio and Greg turned quickly to look at it, waiting eagerly for any sign of Sherlock to come through. Shortly after, the muffled sounds of at least two Russian males came over the radio.

"The Russian translator wasn't able to come in tonight," the random narcotics Sergeant told Jackson. "He told me to just bring the recording to him in the morning and he'd make us a transcript."

Jackson nodded, listening intently to the radio in front of him.

Greg was startled when he felt Mike give him a reassuring pat on his shoulder, finally allowing himself to exhale the breath he'd been holding. He gave Stamford an appreciative nod and found himself thankful for the younger man's steady presence beside him.

"You sure you're okay, mate?" Mike asked him, probably concerned to see that Greg's face had paled with light perspiration that had also broken out over his forehead.

Greg nodded, setting his pizza down on the conference room table, suddenly no longer hungry. The Russian conversation seemed to be continuing on for several minutes. The anxiety that Greg felt from being so close, yet having no idea what was going on, caused his anxious leg to twitch while he remained standing.

"That will be all, Shezza," a smooth, male voice came over the radio in English this time. "Thank you for stopping by," the voice continued on cheerfully. "It's so nice to see that you're back with your family."

Greg squinted his eyes as he tried to focus on the voices coming through the radio. He waited anxiously to hear Sherlock's voice, but instead just heard the closing of a heavy sounding wooden door.

Greg shook his head, "Something's wrong," he told the room, looking directly at Jackson. Greg continued to glare threatening daggers at the Inspector until the other man broke off eye contact.

"I need eyes on the boy," Jackson ordered the undercover agents that were at the other end of the two-way radio.

Greg waited impatiently, clenching his fists while he waited for their report. Jackson kept his eyes fixed on the radio, refusing to look at Lestrade.

"Jackson, I swear, if something happened to-" Greg started angrily, but the voice of one of the undercover officers cut in over him.

"Eyes are on the target. The kid is fine. They are loading him back up into the town car now," the agent reported.

Jackson leveled a see-I-told-you-so gaze at Lestrade, but Greg shook his head.

"You don't know the kid like I do," Greg started angrily. "He can't keep his smart gob shut, it's a disease," he bit out with a sarcastic, but still angry, laugh. "There's no way he would have stayed quiet after getting dismissed by Volkov."

"Sergeant, I think you're too close to this," Jackson told him, shaking his head, but Greg ground his jaw and clenched his fists tighter. "You're sure it was Sherlock?" Jackson asked the officer to verify through the radio again while keeping his eyes fixed on Lestrade.

"Yes, Inspector," the officer confirmed. "His face was partially obstructed by the guards, but the same height, hair clothes, and backpack. Nothing seems unusual."

Right, Greg snorted, nothing seemed unusual about sending a teenager into a house with a dangerous drug lord.

"Thank you," Jackson told the undercover officer. "Stay vigilant, just in case," he added on at the end.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied back before ending the conversation.

"I'm telling you, something is wrong," Greg clapped the back of his right hand into the palm of his left, emphasizing the last few words with muffled claps. "He was in there for what? Half an hour?"

"Sergeant, you don't know the details behind the meeting, and we likely won't until we get the full story from Sherlock. For all we know he was given an assignment and will be back later tonight or tomorrow," Jackson argued.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long inhale, trying to control his emotions. Getting angry wouldn't do him any good right now.

"I think you need to take the night off," Jackson said, looking at Stamford for some kind of support. "That's an order, Sergeant," he finished sternly. "We've got at least one bug in Volkov's home and we'll listen for any signs that something is amiss. In the meantime, you need to get some rest."

"You know, I was actually thinking about hitting the pub myself," Stamford piped up, giving Greg a hopeful look.

"Fine," Greg muttered, nodding at Mike. "I could use a pint," he admitted before looking back at Jackson.

"You'll be the first to know if something is amiss," Jackson told him before he could say anything.

"I'll be back in the morning," Greg told him with a point. "I want to know what the translator had to say about that conversation."

"I expected nothing less," came Jackson's monotonous reply, accompanied by an eye roll.

"Right," Greg nodded, feeling helpless with the current situation. "Lead the way," he told Mike tiredly, waving his arm towards the door and followed him out the door to try and relax.

Greg remained silent as he followed Stamford to the lift. The voice of doubt kept nagging at him from the back of his mind, telling him that something was wrong. The voice did its best to down out all other reasonable thought, and it was exhausting. Hopefully, it was nothing more than Greg's own personal worries and doubts combined with total exhaustion. As much as he hated to admit it, Jackson was probably right. He was too close to this. Besides, he only knew how Sherlock was with him. How he was with Volkov or the other Russians could be a completely different persona. Maybe Shezza was quieter and reserved than his normal self.

"It'll be alright, mate," Mike told him with a clap to his shoulder. "Sounds like you need a night off. Don't worry too much about Sherlock. A smart lad like him, I'm sure he's alright."

Greg looked at the doctor with a tired smile, "I hope you're right, mate."

* * *

Sherlock slowly blinked as he came back to consciousness. The room spun slightly, making him slam his eyes shut and hold his breath in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay. He hadn't expected to be taken out like that so soon into his first meeting with Volkov since he'd returned. It definitely did not bode well for what was left of his time with the Russian criminal. His only hope was that the listening device he was able to plant was working properly and had alerted the narcotics team to his current predicament.

"Took you long enough to come around," Volkov commented from somewhere off to his left.

Sherlock risked opening his eyes again, spotting Volkov reading a book on a settee. He eased himself up into a sitting position slowly, not wanting to make the nausea return. It appeared that he had been moved somewhere else in the house, likely a finished basement given that there were no windows in the area. The walls were done in exposed brick, painted white like the exterior of the home, and decorated with expensive furniture made with dark mahogany. There was a medium-sized conference-style table across from him and a large ornate desk directly behind Volkov. He got the distinct feeling that he had landed himself in the belly of the beast.

"I know I've been away for several months," Sherlock started, wincing at how loud his own voice sounded to him. "I just hadn't anticipated that my departure would earn me such a warm welcome."

He was met with silence from the other man who continued to read his book, otherwise ignoring Sherlock completely. Sherlock frowned at the drug lord's actions. Volkov was known for being quiet, calculating... Sherlock just hadn't expected to be on the receiving end of it. He felt his heart rate quicken at the situation and Sherlock closed his eyes to try and calm down. He tried to tell himself Lestrade would have no doubt heard what had happened. Lestrade heard and he would be on his way.

Deep breath in.

Hold it...

Deep breath out.

Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself locking with Volkov's own ominous gaze. The man had set his book down and was now staring down at Sherlock like a predator waiting to pounce. Sherlock made his face as stoic as possible as to not give away the anxious current that was just below the surface.

"Interesting," Volkov remarked from his position on the settee. "So much has changed about you, Shezza," his face remained indifferent while his voice took on a disappointed tone.

Sherlock stood up from his spot on the floor, encouraged that the room was no longer spinning. He pressed tenderly on the side of his face where the goon had punched him. It was hot and throbbing, the telltale signs of swelling making themselves known. He'd be lucky if the swelling didn't take up most of his orbital socket.

"Come sit," Volkov ordered, pointing to an empty chair across from him.

Sherlock slowly made his way to the chair, keeping his gaze locked on Volkov across from him. The two stayed quiet, each taking the other in as they made their own determinations about the other.

"Why the brutal reception committee with your goons?" Sherlock finally asked him, breaking the silence. "I came straight back to you as soon as I could escape from rehab and the police," he rubbed at his painful eye again.

"Still..." Volkov drawled as he clasped his hands over his crossed legs. "You were with them for quite some time," he pointed out with a shrug. "Perhaps you made a friend?"

Sherlock snorted, "I don't have _friends_ ," he told the man with a roll of his eyes. "I did what I needed to," Sherlock held his chin a little higher. He didn't want to come across as weak to the man. "In the end, what matters is that I came back."

"Volkov remained quiet across from him. Sherlock clenched his teeth at the other man's impassive facade. He had to get control of the situation. Surely there was something he could say, something to get on the upper hand of the situation without giving too much away.

"I came back," Sherlock repeated. "No one ever suspected anything to do with you and I never elaborated when pressed for information. I'm just some kid that ended up on the wrong side of the tracks," he finished with a shrug, feeling quite maudlin about himself.

"Perhaps," Volkov trailed off.

"Perhaps?" Sherlock asked, feeling his anger begin to rise. "I'm telling you the truth. I didn't give you away to the police! In fact, I'm just a blip on their radar. Your name never even came up! And don't even get me started on the rehab facility. They were probably just as happy to find that I had left their services early as I did," he clenched his hands around his knees as he glared at Volkov across from him.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock," Volkov waved him off with a flick of his hand.

The phrase stopped Sherlock in his tracks for a moment. It suddenly triggered memories of being in his parents' sitting room, finding out he was about to be outcast from his own home. Only, sitting across from someone such as Volkov, he suspected would have slightly more dire consequences.

"Perhaps you're right," Volkov nodded and then leaned forward, bringing him closer to Sherlock. "But would you like to know how I know you're lying?" he whispered, and Sherlock looked on at the man with skeptical eyes. "Let me see your hands," he demanded, pointing to Sherlock's hands that were still resting on his knees.

Sherlock looked on at the man suspiciously, but raised his hands and stretched them out between the two of them. Volkov looked on, tutting while shaking his head, and placed his hands under Sherlock's. Sherlock watched on and was proud of himself for not flinching when he felt the delicate palms of Volkov's gently touch his own. The two stayed there unmoving for a moment before Volkov looked up at Sherlock, his dark brown eyes gleaming under the lights of the basement.

"See?" Volkov asked Sherlock quietly. Before Sherlock could pull his hands back, Volkov snapped and grabbed him painfully by the wrists. "The Shezza I knew wouldn't have been able to stop himself."

"What are you talking about!" Sherlock yelled and fruitlessly tried to wring his hands free from the other man.

Volkov tightened his grasp even more on Sherlock's wrists, causing him to wince at the amount of force the other man was applying.

"The Shezza that I knew wouldn't have been able to survive the week without a little _help_ ," Volkov growled out, reminding Sherlock of his previous reliance on cocaine. "You could always be distinguished by the shaking of your hands," he kept on, twisting Sherlock's wrists in such a way that Sherlock tried to twist with the man or else he was certain the drug lord would break them. "Here you are, after being welcomed back, and you are clear as a country day."

"That doesn't mean anything," Sherlock argued back, failing to keep the frantic edge from creeping in.

Volkov shook his head, closing his eyes against what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, my boy," he rasped darkly.

Before Sherlock could reply, Volkov cut him off with a quick practiced motion. The man's left hand snapped back at an angle against Sherlock's wrist that was not meant for that particular joint to go. White-hot pain radiated throughout Sherlock's entire body. Sherlock cried out against the sudden influx of pain and brought his right hand to his body, crouching over the broken appendage.

"Now," Volkov started up again, angling a hand under Sherlock's chin to bring Sherlock's tear-filled eyes up from his broken wrist. "You're going to tell me exactly what I want."

Sherlock closed his eyes and felt a lone tear fall down his face.

Deep breath in.

 _I'm so sorry, Lestrade_.

Hold it...

 _I tried_.

Deep breath out.

* * *

"Wow, that's quite the story," Mike Stamford said, taking a sip from his beer. "Poor kid has been through a lot. Sounds like you have too since meeting him."

Greg nodded, taking a sip from his own beer. "Yeah, but he's a good kid. I'd be lying if I said it helped a bit keeping me distracted during the divorce. Hannah's happy though with her new boyfriend, and I've got Sherlock," he finished with a shrug. "Know it doesn't seem it, but looking back on it now, it seems like a fair trade."

Mike laughed and Greg smiled. God, it was nice to get out and interact with someone that wasn't Sherlock, on the narcotics team or carried an umbrella with them. Mike was a good guy, too. He was nice to work with at a crime scene. Also, he occasionally came along to the homicide department's pub night, though Greg hadn't spent much one-on-one time with the forensics wiz.

"Thanks for this, mate," Greg told him with a raise of his glass. "As much as I hate to admit it, Jackson was right. I needed to get out of there. I was driving myself crazy."

"I think sending your kid into unknown danger warrants driving oneself just slightly off one's rocker," Mike nodded.

Greg took another drink, emptying his pint. He had considered Sherlock his for a bit now. However, it was different hearing someone else acknowledging the same thing. It made him feel validated in his decision. It made his smile an almost permanent fixture on his face.

"You look happy," Mike started from the other side of the table. "Despite the immediate situation," he corrected quickly. "Not that we've hung out all that much, so it's completely not my place to pass any type of judgment on you," he quickly tried to get out, causing Greg to smile. "But you just seem more, I don't know, you," he said vaguely and finished off his own glass.

"Thanks, mate," he gave a disarming smile at his friend. "I've always wanted to be a dad, I just thought it'd happen in the usual way," he shrugged.

Mike let out a laugh, "You know, my mum always used to tell me that we were all dealt a hand in life. Sometimes it'd be shite and sometimes it's a royal flush, but in the end, it's the hand you were dealt."

"Practical, but I get it," Greg told him with a smile.

"Yeah, but it sounds like you got the hand you were supposed to have."

Greg nodded, "Agreed. Listen, I appreciate you taking me out for the evening to get my mind off of things, but I think I'm going to head back to my flat and try and get some sleep," he thanked Mike for the evening out and the drink while standing up from their booth.

"Of course, mate. Anytime," Mike waved him off happily. "Let me know once things settle down for you two, maybe you could bring Sherlock by the lab some afternoon."

"'Course," Greg shook the man's hand and they made their way towards the street. "I'm sure the kid would love that," he finished as they made their way outside.

A black town car pulled up next to them and Greg covered his eyes with one of his hands.

"Christ," he mumbled, dropping the hand from his face. "Have the need to stalk me on my nights out now?" he asked when the door to the backseat opened. Only, instead of an umbrella, a head of shaggy black hair stepped out of the car.

When Greg saw who stepped out of the car, he clenched his fists at his side. The undercover officer's description of Sherlock exiting Volkov's home repeated through his mind. _His face was partially obstructed by the guards, but the same height, hair, clothes, and backpack_. The young man stepped out of the vehicle was _not_ Sherlock. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as the Sherlock imposter opened up Sherlock's backpack and pulled out a single Polaroid picture and passed it off to Greg.

Greg paused and waited for the imposter to get back into the car and drive off before flipping the picture over. " _No_!" he cried and started rummaging through his pockets for his cell.

Mike took the picture from him while he dug for his wallet, looking for a particular card.

"Oh, no," Stamford murmured, taking in the picture of the unconscious, beaten Sherlock.

Finally, after finding the card he was looking for, and his cell, he dialed the number frantically and kept murmuring undecipherable words until a voice on the other end finally answered.

" _You know, when I gave you my card, I hadn't exactly anticipated you to use it within the first week,_ " the smug voice greeted him.

"Sod it," Greg cried, running his free hand through his hair. "It's Sherlock," he began to fidget and fumble for the right words.

" _Take a deep breath, Sergeant,_ " Umbrella Boy instructed calmly before continuing on. " _Now, what seems to be the problem with Sherlock?_ "

Greg let his eyes fall closed as he leaned into Mike's reassuring arm, "Volkov, sent a picture... they pulled the wool over our eyes..."

" _Sergeant, what-have-they-done-to-Sherlock?_ " the voice on the other end took on an eerily calm and composed tone.

"Get your MI6 lad and have him get Sherlock the hell out of there," Greg pleaded. "Please don't let it be too late," he begged, letting the tears fall down his face.

There was a pause on the other end of the line and for a moment Greg thought they had been disconnected before the other voice came back.

" _Are you able to get reinforcement from the Yard?_ " his ally asked, and Greg could hear him giving quiet orders on the other end of the line.

He looked over to Stamford, who already appeared to have the Yard on his own cell, waiting to see what Greg's next move was going to be.

"Yeah, I think we can meet them there," he told the man, trying to get the Earth back under his feet again. He wouldn't be doing the kid any good in the state he was in right now.

" _Go_ ," Umbrella Boy directed him, and Greg nodded to Mike who went off to hail a cab. " _Wait for Ryan's signal_ ," the man started up again. " _Do not, and I repeat, do not engage until you are told to. You won't do Sherlock any good dead_ ," the man deadpanned, making Greg roll his eyes.

"Thanks ever so," he muttered, taking off down the block where Mike was holding a cab for them to take to Volkov's home.

" _Now is not the time for sarcasm, Sergeant,_ " Umbrella Boy informed him. " _Contact me once you are both safe._ "

"Glad to know I rank in your concerns too," he bit back, sliding into the cab next to Stamford.

" _As I mentioned before, Sergeant, you won't do Sherlock any good dead,_ " and then the line was disconnected abruptly. Greg hit the end button on his phone with slightly more force than was strictly necessary before giving the cabbie Volkov's address.

"Jackson and the rest of the narcotics team are on their way," Mike reassured him. "We'll get him out of there."

Greg couldn't stomach a response. His insides were completely tied up with worry and a million other emotions that he wasn't able to identify. _Hang in there, Sherlock,_ he thought to himself as the cab whisked them off through the streets of London towards their destination.

* * *

Sherlock cried out as the Russian brute from earlier held his broken wrist higher, letting Sherlock dangle between the two Russian and American guards. If it wasn't for how painful his wrist was, Sherlock was sure he'd had passed out again. Once Volkov had brought the guards back in, they inflicted more damage to his head before they started dangling him like some kind of cat toy for Volkov to play with.

"It's a shame you know," Volkov began stalking closer to him, and Sherlock felt a bit like he was being hunted down by a jaguar, slinking, sleek, deadly. "I hand-picked you for Moran," he told Sherlock with a disappointed shake of his head as if he should know who that was. "He would have loved you and that big smart brain of yours. He has a thing for smart kids. In fact, he just took one under his wing not too long ago. You could have had a brother," Volkov finished with a shrug.

"I have a brother," Sherlock growled and immediately regretted his decision when one of the guards that were holding him punched him, hard, across his cheekbone, causing him to see stars. Sherlock would have fallen to his knees if it wasn't for the guards on either side, holding him up by his arms.

Volkov picked up the ornate chair that Sherlock had been sitting in earlier and placed it in front of him. The man crossed his legs and put his hands to rest neatly on top of his knees. The two stared at each other for several minutes before Sherlock tried to sag away from the drug lord's gaze but was stopped by the toe of Volkov's shoe digging under his chin, forcing Sherlock to remain staring at him.

"Now, now, Shezza, you and I both know your family has long forgotten about you," Volkov spoke quietly, but the volume of his voice did nothing to tamp down the fire in his eyes. "Do you think they'll even shed a tear for you when the police find your body in the morning?" he finished, tilting his head while digging the point of his shoe slightly harder into Sherlock's chin when he tried to close his eyes. "Your brother? What about your mother or your father?" Sherlock felt a pang in his chest at the latter option. Lestrade would be devastated.

 _Lestrade would be devastated_ ; Sherlock played that thought over in his head. Sherlock never had a chance to tell Lestrade how much he had meant to him. How he wished that Lestrade could be the father that he never had. Now, he would never get the chance.

"Perhaps your new friend will miss you," Volkov started again, and Sherlock felt his heart stop. "What is his name?" Volkov asked lazily, reaching into his breast pocket and producing a picture and turned to show Sherlock. "Sergeant Greg Lestrade?"

Sherlock felt tears fall down his face at the picture. It was a picture of him and Lestrade at the ice cream shop in Piccadilly Circus. Lestrade had a big grin on his face, while Sherlock looked at him with a smirk on his own.

"Wish you would have told me you wanted to make friends with the police. We could have come up with a deal. Maybe it would have prevented me from losing Andrew to the police for months to make contacts on the inside," Volkov shrugged and ripped the picture of him and Lestrade down the middle in one long exaggerated motion.

As if hearing his name, Andrew Ryan took the opportunity to step out of his hiding spot in the shadows. Sherlock looked him over but was having difficulty focusing on anything other than the pain inside his chest, head, and wrist. Lestrade had mentioned Andrew Ryan while he was in rehab, and he had heard rumblings of the trusted, brutal, right-hand man that was behind bars. Apparently, he was no longer behind bars.

"Of course, I know how much the police love to solve things," Volkov carried on with a smug look on his face. "They need to wrap up everything with a pretty bow on top," his gaze turned to one of evil with the spark of an idea. "So I suppose, if we were just to dump you in the Thames, there'd be no body to worry about. That makes things a little neater on our end, you see. As for your friend in the police, it's hard to tie up loose ends when there is no evidence," Volkov shrugged. "It would have the added bonus of driving your police friend mad. Were you murdered? Or did you simply take off out of the city to start your life over?"

Sherlock couldn't stop the tears from rolling freely down his face. Lestrade wouldn't give up until he got answers. And if Lestrade indeed had met Mycroft, there was a strong possibility that he would have the means to tear the city apart until he reached the answers he was looking for.

"Leave him," Volkov instructed the two goons that had been dangling Sherlock this whole time. After a moment they let him go, letting him fall to the floor with a thud.

Sherlock grasped at his broken wrist as he writhed on the floor in agony. The two guards turned to leave the basement with the American one giving him a sharp kick to Sherlock's ribs before leaving him alone.

Volkov leaned forward to look into Sherlock's tormented eyes, "Do you want to ask Andrew over there if your Sergeant Lestrade would be the first police officer that he's executed?"

Sherlock turned his head to stare at the other man in the room. Ryan's face was expressionless as he stared back at Sherlock. They locked eyes momentarily before Sherlock closed his own in defeat, letting his forehead fall to the cool floor. He could only hope that Lestrade would make it out of the situation unscathed.

"Whatever you do to the boy, try not to make it too messy," Volkov told Andrew, wiping the palms of his hands off on a pocket square as he passed him on his way towards the exit of the spacious basement room. "I'm rather fond of this room, it'd be a shame if I have to remodel it so soon."

Andrew Ryan hiked up one of his cargo pant legs as he made his way down towards Sherlock.

"There is a phrase that British troops would use to alert other Brits to duck out of the way of incoming fire," Andrew whispered into his ear, earning a curious look from Sherlock. "Vatican cameos," he finished shoving Sherlock's head down out of the way and pulled his own weapon on the exiting Russians.

Sherlock flinched in surprise as the first shot rang out. Shouting and chaos could be heard from all around him. Andrew grabbed Sherlock from underneath his armpits and dragged him out of the immediate line of fire. It still didn't stop Sherlock from flinching every time he heard shots ring out from around the room, the loud echos of gunfire angering the raging concussion that had been brewing for some time now. Andrew stayed, guarding over Sherlock from behind the settee of the basement.

Sherlock thought he heard the sound of the entrance door being slammed open, followed by a chorus of shouts from Sherlock's position hiding behind the settee in the basement, however, the pain in his head was becoming too much to focus on much of anything else. Ryan fired off several more shots from his weapon over his head, making Sherlock cover his ears from the loudness. Between the combined pain in his wrist and head, Sherlock was finding it difficult to stay conscious.

"Hang in there, kid," Andrew told him, nudging him awake with his shoe. "Sounds like help is on the way."

Sherlock struggled to remain conscious as the sounds of angry shouting made their way down into the basement. Several rapid-fire shots rang out, and a flurry of commotion could be heard before the basement went silent. Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing in the newfound silence that let his head finally feel like it wasn't about to explode.

"Sherlock!" a familiar voice rang out in the silence, causing Sherlock to flinch at the loudness. "Sherlock! Oh, Christ," Lestrade called out, collapsing next to Sherlock on the floor behind the settee. "Stay awake, kid, the ambulance is on its way," he murmured, bringing Sherlock's head to his lap and carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pausing when it reached a portion of dried blood.

"Dad," Sherlock slurred in response before the call to unconsciousness became too strong.

"It's okay, kid. I've got you. You're going to be okay," the whispered voice of his hero could be heard before everything went dark for the second time that night.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, you are all wonderful readers. I hope that you continue to enjoy the longest chapter yet. Hucklebarry, you're still da bomb.

**Chapter 15**

Even, regular beats from the monitoring devices in Sherlock's room punctuated the silence between the doctor's report on Sherlock's injuries. It had been a long several hours since rescuing Sherlock, and the kid had yet to regain consciousness. If it wasn't for the monitoring devices telling him otherwise, Greg would be convinced that the kid was dead. It was unnerving. It also caused Greg to be unfocused in the early (or was it late?) hours of the night, as his attention was now torn between listening to the doctor and being unable to take his eyes off of an unconscious Sherlock laying in the hospital bed in front of him.

"So, the head thankfully only appears bad," the doctor started in, bringing Greg's attention back to her when she showed him a couple of scans. "Other than a pretty impressive concussion, it looks like he's lucked out and avoided a subdural hematoma that would require surgery. We will continue to monitor that over the next couple of days for any changes," the young doctor told him with a comforting smile. "Hopefully, he'll get used to the new haircut," she apologies with a sad smile.

Greg just nodded his head and brushed her off. Sherlock would deal with the short buzzed hair, and Greg could too as long as the kid was _alive_. He gently carded his fingers through what was left of Sherlock's hair, careful to avoid the shaved patch where the wound on the right side of his skull had been cleaned. He was just happy that Sherlock was out of there. These last few weeks had been hell, and Greg was just glad that Sherlock was back with him, safe.

"As for the arm," she continued with a frown, switching to a different film. "His radius, ulnar, and carpal bones are fractured in multiple locations. The radius has two concerning fractures at the distal end and in his wrist. I've sent this off for a surgical consult with our ortho department and will let you know what they say as soon as I hear something. I suspect he'll require some pins and physical therapy so we don't lose any movement in that wrist."

Greg just continued to nod along to what the doctor was saying, his eyes still resting on Sherlock.

"But other than that, the rest of his labs look good," she told him, flipping through the papers on Sherlock's chart. "His tox screen was negative. It just appears that he's just a touch dehydrated and malnourished, neither of which we can't address with some IV fluids, vitamins, and a decent diet."

"Wait," Greg interrupted her, surprised. "Did you say that the tox screen was negative?" for the first time his attention was completely towards her.

"Across the board," she confirmed with a smile. "Now we have the good stuff keeping him asleep and comfortable, so that wouldn't be the case," she told him with a shrug.

Greg couldn't help but let a smile break out, beaming at Sherlock.

"I'll come back to check on you once I hear word about getting Sherlock set up for surgery to fix that arm. We should be able to admit him after that. In the meantime, get some rest, Mr. Lestrade. Your son is going to be just fine," she finished with a smile and a pat to the top of his shoulder.

"Yeah. Thanks, Doctor," he called out as she left their small trauma bay.

He breathed a sigh of relief. The Sergeant looked over Sherlock and couldn't help but notice how much younger he looked while lying in the hospital bed in a gown that was too big for him, hooked up to a couple of IVs. They'd gotten extremely lucky. Greg had thought for sure the kid would be in worse shape than that.

"How is he?"

Greg spun to see who was intruding on his time with Sherlock and glowered at Jackson's nervous stance at the entrance to the trauma bay.

"Get out!" Greg seethed, pointing back to the exit of the curtained-off trauma area.

Jackson at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"Don't," Greg interrupted the narcotics Inspector when he opened his mouth. "Just don't," he finished with a firm shake of his head. The quiet calm in his voice did nothing to tamp the fire in his eyes.

"Sergeant Lestrade, if you'd just let me-"

Greg stood up, cutting off the Inspector, and crossed his arms, blocking Jackson's view of Sherlock.

"No," Greg shook his head, taking a moment to stare down at his shoes before raising it again to lock eyes with the Inspector still hoovering in the door. "I don't have to let you do anything!" he whispered angrily through his teeth. "You had your chance. I told you this was a terrible idea, but you didn't listen to me. I told you to stop this, and yet again, you didn't listen to me. But interestingly enough, when you're told that if one hair on that," he paused to point at Sherlock, "kid's head gets harmed, you would be buried so deep you'd never be remembered, you magically appear, suddenly showing your first genuine care for the kid," Greg finished with a tilt of his head.

The two men stared each other down for several moments before Greg spoke up again, "Now. Get. _Out_!" he growled with a point to the door.

Thankfully, Jackson appeared to have decided that it was best to leave with his tail tucked between his legs.

Jackson paused at the curtain to Sherlock's room and Greg clenched his fists, ready to go another round. "I'm sorry," Jackson whispered with a nod before turning to finally leave.

Greg sunk into his chair, letting his head fall into his hands. He didn't have it in him to deal with Jackson at the moment. Later, once Sherlock was all figured out and wasn't recovering in a hospital bed, he'd deal with him.

Greg settled in the uncomfortable, plastic chair and grabbed Sherlock's uninjured hand, ready to stand guard the rest of the night.

* * *

Sherlock groaned when the sounds and lights of the real world began seeping through to his mind. There was an annoying beeping noise to his right and something heavy resting off to his left side. He let out a grown when he tried to open his eyes and found the lights too bright to process.

"Sherlock?" the heaviness to his left lifted and the groggy voice of Lestrade filtered through the fog in his brain.

He took a deep breath before attempting to open his eyes again. Sherlock found it easier this time around, but still found his sensitivity to light borderline intolerable. He fumbled with his hands and frowned at the feeling of his right wrist being clunky and immobilized.

Lestrade shuffled around off to the side and soon the room went blissfully dark, "Yeah, it's broken," he explained, coming back to the chair next to Sherlock.

"Volkov?" Sherlock asked him, slowly feeling his thought processes return to him. He was groggy, sluggish, and it felt like it took forever for his brain and his mouth to communicate with one another. He looked around the room and saw that the beeping to his right came from a machine monitoring his various bodily vitals. Next to the monitor was another machine that appeared to be pumping fluids, and likely narcotics, into him. "I'm in the hospital," he realized, turning back to Lestrade.

"Yeah," Lestrade replied and Sherlock could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "What do you remember?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, going back into his mind, frowning when he was coming up short, "I went to Volkov," he started, squinting as he attempted to recollect everything. "He knew I was lying, he broke my wrist," he continued slowly, looking to Lestrade for help filling in the blanks. "Everything else after that is... hazy."

"You don't remember Andrew Ryan saving you, or me and the narcotics team coming in?" Lestrade asked him cautiously.

Sherlock shook his head, wincing at the movement.

"You have a pretty good concussion too," Lestrade added on.

"You don't say?" Sherlock's sarcasm was lost as his exhaustion started to come back through.

"So, you don't remember anything? Not even talking to me when I found you?" Lestrade asked trying to keep his feelings of sadness, yet still clinging onto hope, from reaching his voice. The last thing he wanted to do was make the kid feel guilty for something he couldn't help.

Sherlock took a moment to try and think back but found the memories missing, or at least distorted. "I'm sorry," he told the man. "I promise you can blame the concussion if I said anything particularly embarrassing."

Lestrade chuckled, "No, kid, I'm just glad you're okay," he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and gave him a firm squeeze. Sherlock leaned into the comforting touch of his guardian. "Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?"

"No, I think the cocktail of drugs they have me on is doing a good job of not letting me care too much about anything."

"Yeah, well let me know. I think I saw some cookies at the nurses' station, I bet I could bum one for you," he offered with a smile.

"Is the cookie because I got my arm broken, or that I completed my mission in half the expected time?" Sherlock asked him with a smile.

Lestrade snorted at him, "I don't know if that counts since you got caught." Sherlock couldn't help the loud, unexpected laugh that came out of his lips. "You're high," Lestrade told him with a smile of his own.

"Mmmm," Sherlock agreed, closing his eyes again. "I do have to say that it is convenient that they just pass drugs out like candy in the hospital," he commented, earning him an eye roll from the man next to him. "Can I meet the nurse that successfully placed my IV?" he asked, waving his left hand around. "I did a pretty thorough job trashing my veins when I first started using, so the nurse deserves commendation on their handy work."

"You know, now would be a great time to stop talking," Lestrade muttered from his chair next to Sherlock, earning him an exaggerated huff from the younger man. "I'm glad you're alright," he spoke softly. Sherlock decided not to comment on the waiver in the other man's voice.

"At least now you don't have any excuse to skip out on your Inspector's test," Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade let out a hearty laugh that made Sherlock smile, "Have I told you that you're a bit of an arse?"

"Once or twice, replied closing his eyes again. "But I'm your arse."

"That you are, kid, that you are."

* * *

Greg walked slowly back to Sherlock's hospital room after visiting the small break room that supplied coffee and tea to visitors and guests of this floor. With a hot cup of coffee in hand, he tried to prepare himself for another afternoon in the hospital. The kid had developed a low-grade fever before surgery that they were thankfully able to get control of quickly, preventing any delays for surgery. Sherlock was currently sleeping off the anesthesia from surgery to repair his broken wrist earlier today. Greg wanted to make sure that he was close by so the kid wouldn't be any more disoriented than he expected him to be. The doctor that performed the surgery told him that he expected Sherlock to make a full recovery, but would need a lot of physical therapy to get him there.

Greg was in the process of mentally preparing himself for finding a physical therapist that would tolerate Sherlock's _unique_ personality when he reentered Sherlock's room with a cup of coffee in hand. He wasn't overly surprised that there was someone else in the room, what with the constant stream of nurses and doctors. Only, once he was able to focus, he was more surprised by the man in a suit pursuing Sherlock's chart with an umbrella propped up against his bed.

"Why am I not surprised you managed to sneak your way in here?" Greg deadpanned.

The not-quite stranger gave him a thin smile before gently flipping the chart closed and let it hang off of the end of the bed.

"I heard that Sherlock survived his little mission. So naturally, I thought I would come and check on the two of you," he finished as he adjusted the lapels of his expensive-looking suit.

"Yes, well as you saw from his chart, he's recovering well and we'll be out of here in the next day or so as long as his fever stays away," Greg told him tiredly, sitting down in his usual chair next to Sherlock's bed.

"Good to hear," the man told him, looking at the floor as if contemplating what to say next.

Umbrella Boy was temporarily relieved from having to talk by the nervous appearance of Inspector Jackson in the doorway. He looked curiously at the man with the umbrella before the Inspector turned his attention towards Sherlock.

"Did the surgery go okay?" he asked, looking at Greg for confirmation.

Greg remained sitting, glaring at the newcomer to the room while steadily tapping his fingers on the armrest of the chair. Umbrella Boy looked back and forth between the two of them with an odd expression as he watched Greg interact with Jackson.

Jackson let out a sad sigh, "Right, well let me know when you can come back to the Yard. There is some paperwork that we need to go over before I transfer you back to homicide," he told Greg before turning to leave the room, giving the man with the umbrella a nod on the way out the door.

Umbrella Boy continued to watch Jackson leave and turn down the hall before focusing back on Greg, "Any idea why Inspector Jackson has suddenly taken an interest in Sherlock's well being?" he asked with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

Greg nervously rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, "I, uh, maybe threatened Jackson that if Sherlock got hurt in all of this, I knew someone that would bury him," Greg told him with a grimace. "You know, someone from on high," he hinted, giving the man a pointed look.

The man grabbed his umbrella from the bed and raised both of his eyebrows in surprise, "I see," the man replied with a frown. "I'm sure something could be arranged," he told Greg with the slightest smirk, which surprised the Sergeant.

Sherlock snorted and then immediately winced, trying to grab for his head, having a difficult time managing between the cast on his right arm and the IV in his left.

"Sherlock!" Greg tutted and stood to lean over the hospital bed. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Yes," Sherlock struggled to open his eyes. "I was just rather hoping that this voice was due to the concussion," he groaned and looked over at the Umbrella Boy with a petulant frown.

The other man with the umbrella smiled at Sherlock, "I'm afraid the past has caught up with you, Sherlock," he said threateningly.

Greg tensed at the tone of voice the man had taken. He had been right, the two had crossed paths before. While he was about to reconsider everything he thought he knew about the man, Greg looked over to Sherlock and found himself more confused when he saw the kid roll his eyes at the man who was now leaning against his umbrella.

"I see that Uncle Rudy has taught you some of his intimidation tactics," Sherlock said. "It's a shame you can't put them to use."

"Uncle?" Greg asked, looking between the two with a frown.

"Lestrade," Sherlock started, pausing to raise the head of his hospital bed to a more comfortable position. "I have the unfortunate position of introducing you to Mycroft," he finished with a frown.

"Mycroft," Greg said slowly, still glancing between the two waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The man, Mycroft, decided to fill in the blanks when Sherlock decided to stop talking.

"Yes, Sergeant Lestrade, I suppose I should thank ou for taking care of my little brother for all of these months."

Greg felt his bottom jaw drop and spun back to Sherlock, " _Brother_!" he questioned, his voice raising a few decimals.

Sherlock's face turned sour, "Unfortunately," he confirmed with a disdained expression on his face.

"Brother?" Greg turned back to question Mycroft, feeling fire begin to build inside.

"I believe that has been established," Mycroft answered plainly.

Greg sunk back into his chair and buried his face in his hands for a moment to gather his thoughts before looking back at Mycroft.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he demanded with a pound to his armrest. "I had your brother all this time, and you never once tried to take him away," he trailed off in disbelief. "And your parents! They must be worried sick!"

Sherlock let out a snort and then failed at trying to contain his laughter. Greg looked over at the teen, concerned by the sudden outburst, and then turned back to Mycroft for an explanation.

"There is still much that I don't know myself, Sergeant," Mycroft explained softly, looking over at his brother. "Regardless of the situation that led Sherlock to be in your care, I find it fortuitous that he crossed your path," he told Greg, giving him a nod.

"I-uh," Greg faltered, still trying to wrap his mind around everything he had learned.

"I think what Mycroft is trying to say is _thank you_ ," Sherlock told Greg, giving a glare towards his older brother.

"Right, uh, you're welcome?" he answered both of them, still confused.

Sherlock smiled at him and Greg returned it, giving the teen a comforting pat on his shoulder.

* * *

"If I could have a moment with my brother?" Mycroft turned to ask Greg.

"Uh, yeah, of course," Lestrade stuttered, still obviously stunned by the afternoon's revelations. He gave Sherlock a smile before leaving to give the brothers their space.

Sherlock glared at his brother, unwilling to be the first to talk. Mycroft continued to stare him down from the foot of his hospital bed. Quite frankly, Sherlock had nothing to say to his older sibling. Mycroft hadn't been there when he had been outcast by his parents, and he certainly hadn't attempted to find him until word must have made it to him that his little brother was in league with Alexander Volkov.

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock," Mycroft ground out, irritated that his little brother refused to speak.

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock," Sherlock mimicked back before returning to glare at his older brother.

"Sherlock," Mycroft frowned and heaved a sigh, staring at the ceiling for a moment before bringing his gaze back to Sherlock. "If you would let me explain," he started with an exasperated tone.

" _Please_ ," Sherlock encouraged, opening his arms. "Please explain to me how my older brother _abandoned_ me," he seethed. "You _knew_ I was having problems, and just like Mother and Father, you buried your head in the sand to ignore them! In fact, when they told you they ostracized me-"

"They did no such thing!" Mycroft interrupted him with a stomp of his foot. If Sherlock didn't know his older brother better, he'd say that he was distraught.

"Oh, please," Sherlock answered with a snarl. "As if their perfect child didn't know _exactly_ what was about to happen-"

"I _didn't_ ," Mycroft pleaded. "If I had, I would have done what it took to care for you myself," he finished sadly, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, they lied to me. They told me that you had gone off the deep-end and fled once and for all," he told Sherlock dolefully.

Sherlock frowned at the answer he had received from his older brother. Surely, this was some type of rouse. There was _no way_ his parents' favorite child had been left so completely out of the loop.

"Sherlock, they lied to me," he stated again and Sherlock looked into his eyes, for once unable to find fault in his brother's statement. "They knew that if they had told me what they were about to do to you, I would have stopped everything to take care of you," he finished on a more sincere note.

Sherlock scoffed, "I can only imagine what that would have been like," Sherlock told his brother with a raise of his eyebrow. "The two of us living together under one roof again."

Mycroft laughed, causing Sherlock to join in with his brother, "I suppose that it is serendipitous that you stumbled upon Sergeant Lestrade then," his brother finished on a more somber note.

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "He's okay," he told his brother looking towards the exit where he knew Lestrade was waiting. "You didn't tell him that I was your brother?" Sherlock asked him with a grin.

Mycroft responded with a smirk of his own, "You could say I stayed coy about the situation. Heaven forbid I _spook_ you."

"You know, he's never going to forgive us," Sherlock informed him with a smile.

Mycroft shrugged, "I think it is less about us, and more about _you_ ," he finished with a pointed look.

"He's okay," Sherlock told him again, looking back towards the exit to his hospital room. "Lestrade, that is."

"I wouldn't have let you stay with him if he wasn't," Mycroft told him with raised eyebrows. "Still, some protocol must be adhered to."

"I don't want Mother and Father to know," Sherlock told him abruptly. "In fact, I don't want them to know anything about me from here on out."

"Sherlock," Mycroft tutted.

"I'm serious, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted. "They shut me out," he whispered, looking pleadingly at his older brother. "They don't get to swoop back in and save the day once everything has sorted itself out."

"Sherlock, they're your parents-"

"No!" Sherlock stopped Mycroft before he could continue. "They bowed out of my life the second they asked me to not be in theirs anymore," he whispered, setting. "I can't go back to them."

"So, this, Sergeant Lestrade, is who you pick to take over the more day to day mundane aspects of your life?" Mycroft asked with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Please, tell me what you've found to dispute my choice," Sherlock challenged.

"I have none," Mycroft replied plainly.

Sherlock was sure he would have stumbled to the floor if he wasn't in a hospital bed, "None?" he asked, surprised.

Mycroft rocked back and forth as if he was debating the correct words to say before continuing, "I've been in contact with Sergeant Lestrade for some time now. If I would have found something to contraindicate your association with him, I wouldn't have let you see him once you returned from Volkov."

Sherlock frowned, thinking on his brother's words. He supposed that somewhere buried inside of his brother's chest there really might have been a functioning heart.

"Speaking of Volkov," Mycroft started, hesitating to continue any further.

"Speaking of Volkov..." Sherlock tried to jump-start his brother's train of thought.

"I would have pulled you out of there sooner," Mycroft started and then paused again, nervously looking over Sherlock in his hospital bed. "But we needed a name," he finished with a regretful shrug. "It's been somewhat of a mission of Uncle Rudy's. Someone was pulling Volkov's strings along with several others'. I saw in your hospital notes that there was some amnesia noted-"

"Moran," Sherlock told him with a monotonous tone.

"Moran?" Mycroft seemed surprised that he would give up information like that to his older brother.

"I don't remember much after that," Sherlock thought, trying to recall exactly what was said. "Volkov had been complaining that because I went to the police, he couldn't turn me over to Moran," Sherlock faded. "I think this Moran person has already been given someone my age, but things get a little hazy around there."

"That is most helpful," Mycroft nodded at Sherlock.

"So that is it then?" Sherlock asked with a smile. "We're done, and this is the last I'll have to deal with your annoying face?" he asked with a hopeful look at his older brother.

"I'm afraid the agreement was for Mummy and Father," Mycroft smiled at him. "I don't recall you mentioning me in your demands."

Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned at the realization.

"Anyways, brother mine, I think that is my cue to leave," Mycroft told him with a smile. "Do try not to scare your new guardian off too soon."

Sherlock let his head fall back against the bed once his brother left. He honestly hadn't expected to see anyone from his previous life again. The fact that their parents had lied to Mycroft about Sherlock's disappearance had been somewhat surprising. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought back on the last few months he'd been with Lestrade. At least Mycroft wasn't going to try and interfere with that. His only hope was that Mycroft wouldn't be the one to scare Lestrade off before he did.

* * *

Greg had been standing up against the wall opposite Sherlock's hospital room, glaring lasers through the door as he waited for Mycroft to exit. He had almost barged in on the two of them when he could hear their raised voices through the door. However, they seemed to quiet down quickly, with no alarms from any of Sherlock's monitoring devices going off. With this being between the brothers, Greg decided to wait it out.

He couldn't believe Umbrella Boy turned out to be the kid's brother. The kid had a brother and parents... he had a family. _Of course,_ the kid had a family. Lestrade couldn't believe how he'd let himself be deluded into forgetting that fact. He'd let himself get too attached to Sherlock, and now his government agent MI-whatever brother was here to take him back. Greg let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. Everything he'd been working towards the last few months was slipping away between his fingers, and he was unable to grab onto anything. There had to be a way to stop Sherlock from going back to his parents. Greg could argue that they didn't even try to look for him, or he'd get himself a solicitor because there _had_ to be some kind of loophole.

Finally, the door to Sherlock's room opened up, stopping Greg's inner turmoil from spiraling out of control any longer.

"You're his _brother_?" Greg exclaimed as soon as the door closed behind the man with the umbrella.

"Yes, I believe that we have already had this conversation," Mycroft sighed and turned to head down the hallway, leaving Greg behind.

Greg took off after him, "Sorry that it is just taking a bit for my mind to catch up," he continued on, not caring that the other man was ignoring him. "I can't believe you let your own brother go back to Volkov like that," he complained once more. " _I_ at least did my best to protect the kid. _You_ , on the other hand, were ready to feed him to the sharks," he smirked in victory when Mycroft stopped in the middle of the hall with another sigh.

"As I told you before, someone was pulling my strings too," he said sadly, turning back around to face Greg. "My brother and I have always had a tedious relationship."

"You don't say," Greg snarked.

"You can imagine the Christmas dinners," Mycroft said with a sarcastic flair.

"Speaking of," Greg started cautiously. "What about, um your parents?" Are they, I mean," Greg stopped, trying to get his stammering under control.

"In the picture?" Mycroft supplied when Greg stumbled.

"Yeah," Greg answered, nervously letting out a huff of air. _Pull yourself together Lestrade_.

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella in the middle of the hall and stared at Greg for a long moment before answering, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born on January 6, nineteen-seventy-seven. Our parents are alive, but essentially out of the picture as far as he is concerned. The possibility of adoption would be made available to you if you wish, I'll make sure of it. The rest of his information including school transcripts and health records will be delivered to your flat tomorrow afternoon."

Greg felt his chest spasm at the word adoption. This had taken a turn in a surprising direction and Greg felt himself smile. He had gotten himself worked up for nothing. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to figure out how to talk to the kid about everything. He told himself he would handle it better than the whole guardianship fiasco. On another note, now they really needed a larger flat. Greg came back to the present when he saw the questioning look on Mycroft's face.

"Th-Thank you. I appreciate it," he answered quickly, still trying to wrap his mind around everything that was happening. "That's it?" he asked, feeling himself beginning to panic. "I mean I'm only thirty-three years old and have no idea what I'm doing."

This was becoming a reality a lot quicker than he had expected. _This was happening_ , he thought nervously, convincing himself that the walls were not closing in around him.

He took a deep, centering breath and when he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock's brother, Greg found himself wanting to punch the smug smile that had formed on Mycroft's face.

"You won't be thanking me once you scan through his school records and discover that he was expelled for setting the school's chemistry laboratory on fire," Mycroft finished with a smile that showed all of his teeth.

Greg felt his jaw drop. _Of course, the blasted kid got himself expelled_ , he thought to himself, fighting the urge to cover his face.

"However, whatever the issues that may arise in your time together may be, I'm sure that you will be able to figure it out together," Mycroft continued, giving Greg a small smile. "If, or should I saw _when_ , you find yourself in need of any type of assistance at all, please consider me a special liaison. I will be able to assist you in anything pertaining to Sherlock," he offered with a nod, leaving Greg in his wake feeling slightly more anxious with his newfound responsibility than he had anticipated.

_Adoption_ , he thought with raised eyebrows as he watched Mycroft walk away. He placed both hands in his pants pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet nervously. Wow. He looked back at the door to Sherlock's room. That would be a big step for the two of them. It had an air of finality around it. He closed his eyes and the memory of Sherlock calling him _dad_ replayed. He couldn't stop the smile that broke across his face. It would definitely be something to discuss with Sherlock, but he remembered how angry the kid had gotten when he had done the guardianship without asking him, so he wouldn't be making that mistake again.

Greg was unable to get the smile off of his face when he reentered Sherlock's hospital room. The kid was fast asleep again, and Greg couldn't blame him. He'd been through a lot. Now though, they would have each other, and Greg wouldn't let the kid down, he thought, running a hand through Sherlock's freshly buzzed down hair. Greg shook his head and went to make himself comfortable for another night in the hospital. _Expelled from school_ , he thought with an eye roll. He dreaded what else he'd find in the kid's records when he got them.

"Alright, Sherlock Holmes," Greg started, propping his feet up on the couch that was in the room. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked the unconscious kid with a smile.

* * *

Jonathan Jackson walked off the lift onto the narcotics floor Monday afternoon after attempting to visit the boy, Sherlock, after he had his surgery this morning. He was still receiving the cold shoulder from Lestrade which wasn't too surprising. Frankly, he was just ready to be done with the both of them, Lestrade and Sherlock. This whole case had turned into a nightmare and he was ready to go back to his life, forgetting that the two of them even existed.

"Morning, Inspector," the floor's receptionist greeted him with a smile. He nodded back to her, continuing the walk towards his office.

There was so much paperwork to complete, it would probably take them a week to finish it all. If someone would have told him that shooting and killing one of London's most notorious drug lords would end in so much paperwork, he would have possibly reconsidered something else when he got out of the Navy. Regardless, it was over now, and the sooner he could get Lestrade to finish his paperwork and interview, the sooner he could move on.

He opened the door to his office, resigned to spend the afternoon on said paperwork, and was more than surprised to find someone sitting in _his_ chair.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded of the man.

The man in question smiled in return. He was young with dark hair, but his age didn't appear to be an issue as power wasn't something that appeared foreign to him. He was wearing a crisp three-piece suit and held an umbrella as he rocked back in his chair.

"Wait a minute," Jackson paused, tilting his head. "You were at the hospital this morning," he stated, pointing to the man. "You were visiting with the boy and Lestrade."

"Yes, and you are the man who was willing to risk a young boy's life because of an _affair_ ," the man snarled.

"Now, wait just a minute," Jackson started, angrily pointing a finger at the intruder who still had not moved from his seat. "I don't know what lies that Sherlock kid told you-"

"He didn't tell me anything, I just know," he finished with a shrug and then propped the umbrella on his desk, now leaning forward. "For a Detective Inspector, you were blissfully ignorant of the world around you when it came to your extramarital affair," the man said, pulling an envelope out from his breast pocket before pushing it across the desk for Jackson to inspect.

Keeping his eyes on the intruder, Jackson slowly grabbed the envelope off the desk and cracked it open to take a quick glance at its contents. There appeared to be quite a few pictures. He looked back at the man with a questioning expression before pulling out the pictures to look through them. What he saw made his heart fall to the floor. It was picture after picture of him in varying degrees of compromising situations with his best friend and lover that he had lost while doing undercover work on the Volkov ring. His death was the entire reason that spurred Jackson to take such actions against the drug lord.

"How in the _hell_ did you get these?" he asked the other man darkly, shaking the pictures.

"You're asking the wrong questions, Inspector Jackson," the man replied, unphased by Jackson's simmering anger.

"Oh?" Jackson asked, taking an intimidating step around the desk. "Tell me then, what is the _right question_?" he growled.

"How did your wife come to possess these pictures?" the man lifted a challenging eyebrow.

"What. Did. You. Say?" Jackson asked deadly, trying to keep himself from launching onto the man before him with a floor of police officers behind him.

"It is actually quite impressive that you were able to hide your affair from her for so long," the man started again. "It is a shame though that the idyllic appearance of her life came crashing down around her not too long ago."

"You Bastard! You had no right!"

"I thought that I would help you with your paperwork to finish wrapping up this case for you. That way you could go beg for mercy while I was in the area," the man in the suit carried on, turning to his computer to pull up the Volkov file. "See, while you were too focused on revenge for Volkov, you failed to notice that your receptionist's junkie son had fallen into Volkov's grasp. So when Volkov found out he had a link to someone on the inside, he started paying her handsomely to siphon off any information the Yard had involving him or whatever he wished," he informed him while still clicking through several documents, apparently searching for something in particular.

Jackson turned back in shock at the revelation and was floored to watch the receptionist in tears, being handcuffed by some unknown men and taken away.

"We always forget about the receptionists," the man carried on, shaking his head. "They know all of our darkest secrets and can pull them up at a moment's notice," he smiled, apparently finding the document he was looking for. "For instance, before she was arrested, she helped me find a particularly interesting document that you reported to your superiors to get approval for your latest mission.

Jackson closed his eyes and took a step back from the man.

"See, while I was forced to let certain events unfold to get a certain outcome, I found it particularly fascinating to learn that the only reason you were approved for sending Sherlock undercover was because the documents that you submitted to your supervisors were falsified," this time the man turned from the computer to turn his intense gaze onto Jackson. "Can you read me the date of birth that you submitted for Sherlock?"

Jackson sighed and closed his eyes, "September the third, nineteen-seventy-four," he answered quietly.

"Three years make quite the difference, don't they Inspector?" the man asked, equalling the quietness in his voice that Jackson's had taken. "It's the difference between sending an adult versus a minor into a dangerous and potentially _deadly_ situation," he finished sharply. "It makes one wonder what other paperwork you've done is potentially falsified," he questioned, bringing a hand up to his chin.

"The boy signed up for it," Jackson tried to argue, but the words felt flat as he said them.

The man just stared at him from across the desk with a disappointed expression.

"Would you like to know how old your receptionist's son is?" the stranger asked with a questioning raise of a single eyebrow.

Jackson closed his eyes again. No, he didn't want to know the answer, but he knew he was about to hear it anyway. He let his shoulders sag in preemptive defeat.

"Nineteen," the man's voice was still quiet, but not lacking in vitriol. "All you had to do was look in your very own department for the answer you were looking for. Instead, you got tunnel vision when Lestrade presented you with what appeared to be the _perfect_ option. For a Detective Inspector, I don't think it gets more pathetic than that," he stood up from his desk and looked behind Jackson's shoulder.

Jackson turned and felt himself sink further when he saw that two officers and the Chief Superintendent had arrived in his doorway.

"Trust me, it brings me no pleasure in doing this. However, occasionally those of us from _on high_ have to come down to the ground to deal with issues such as these," he gave Jackson a disturbing wink. "Maybe before you go off on your next crusade you will take a moment to stop and think," the man started up again, walking around him to exit the door. "This last one lost you your lover, your wife, and your job," he shrugged his shoulders and straightened his suit jacket. "What's left for you to lose?" he asked, nodding his farewell before exiting the room.

Jackson watched as the man walked with his umbrella towards the lifts where Jackson himself had just come from before his world had been flipped upside down. He managed not to wince when the uniformed officers tightened the cuffs on his wrists. If he never saw that man, Lestrade, or Sherlock again, it would be too soon.

* * *

"Perfect, now when we add the enzyme to the concentration in front of us," Mike Stamford looked over to Sherlock, who added a couple of drops to the vial in front of them.

"If it changes to a green color it will signify that it is vegetation, whereas, if there is no change, it would indicate it is not an organic substance," he answered, gently shaking the vial which turned a dark green color in front of their eyes.

"Right!" Stamford happily clapped him on the shoulder.

Sherlock smiled at the cheerful response he got and moved to clear up some of the mess that they had made, careful to avoid spilling anything on his new cast. He looked up at the clock in the lab and gave a nervous frown.

"Don't worry about Greg," Mike told him with a comforting smile. "Rumor has it that the Inspectors' test is a brutal one. I wouldn't worry too much, it's only been a couple of hours."

Sherlock nodded, feeling his cheeks tinge in embarrassment over being caught worrying about Lestrade. He had been adapting to life back with Lestrade since being released from the hospital a little over a week ago. It had been boring being laid up on Lestrade's couch, despite the man's efforts for trying to include him in packing and apartment hunting. But when the opportunity presented itself to help Stamford in the lab while he sat for his test, he jumped, eager to get out of the confines of the small flat. Going by how green the man was when they walked through the doors to the Yard, Sherlock would be more impressed if he made it through the examination without vomiting.

"So, you guys get to start moving this weekend," Stamford started up again in an attempt to make small talk.

Sherlock nodded, moving to focus on the next set of tests that Stamford had set up for him to complete.

"I bet it will be nice to have your own bed instead of having to bum around on a couch," he continued on.

"Still better than a concrete floor of a warehouse," he mumbled, without looking up.

"Yeah..." Stamford trailed off, apparently caught off guard by Sherlock's blunt statement. "I'm sure everything you have now is better than that," he finished awkwardly.

Thankfully, Sherlock was saved from any additional polite banter by the entrance of Lestrade through the lab doors. He gave a small tired smile at him before walking over towards Stamford.

"Hey, mate, you look wiped," Stamford greeted him with a handshake.

Sherlock left the lab station he was at and cautiously made his way over to Lestrade.

"You know, I thought that I would feel better after finishing that test," he started and threw an arm over Sherlock's shoulders when he had gotten close enough to the man. "But I think the pit in my stomach isn't going to go away until the test results come back in a couple of weeks," he told them, giving Sherlock a comforting squeeze. "At least we have the move and school interviews to keep me occupied for a bit."

"Well, I'm sure you did great!" Stamford gave Lestrade an enthusiastic clap to the shoulder that wasn't currently around Sherlock's.

"Thanks, I think I'll take this one off your hands though," he said, pulling Sherlock with him towards the door. "I've got one more stop I have to make before we head home."

"Right, right," Stamford nodded, following them towards the exit. "Sherlock's welcome anytime. Let's have a pint once things are settled in the next couple of weeks, yeah?"

"I'd like that, thanks, mate," Lestrade told him, throwing a smile over their shoulders as they exited the lab.

Sherlock let himself be led by Lestrade, not bothering to remove the man's arm from around his shoulders just yet. They made their way through the lobby towards the elevators that led to the various departments upstairs.

"I've got to make one stop," Lestrade told him, hitting the button to signal the lift. "I get to move all my stuff back to my desk in homicide, thank god," he said, feeling relieved, dropping his arm from around Sherlock when they entered the elevator. "Thankfully, it's only a box worth of stuff, shouldn't take too long."

Sherlock could tell that Lestrade was exhausted and still on edge. It was probably a combination of the last few weeks that had turned into Sherlock's hospital stay, combined with studying for the Inspectors' test. Lestrade had spent whatever time he had not packing on studying, including staying up late into the night doing so. Sherlock took pity on Lestrade after ten and stayed up to help quiz him until forcing the man to go to bed just past midnight last night.

"Are you okay with pizza tonight?" Greg turned to ask with tired eyes. "I'm knackered, I just want to sit on the couch and-" the whole lift suddenly lurched, throwing each of them into the wall. "What the hell!" Greg yelled, and Sherlock cringed when he couldn't stop his cast from hitting the wall.

The typical electrical sounds that came with an elevator seemed to have stopped, but the emergency lights never turned on. They both held onto the wall for a moment, waiting to see what was going to happen, breathing a sigh of relief when they seemed to stay still instead of plummeting to the floor. Whatever was going on with the lift would hopefully only be a temporary set back.

"You okay?" Greg turned to him, placing a concerned hand over his cast. Sherlock nodded as he glanced nervously around the broken lift. "What the hell is going on?" Greg went and banged on the elevator doors before going to the panel to press the emergency button, turning back to Sherlock with a panicked expression on his face when the sound of just static came over the intercom.

"What does that mean?" Sherlock asked him, pointing at the speaker before going over to the panel when Greg went back to pounding on the lift doors.

"Hey!" Greg yelled, pounding harder on the doors. "Shit," he cursed, shoving back from the door to pace nervously across the lift.

Sherlock watched on as the normally cool-headed man began to slowly unravel in front of him.

"Lestrade," he spoke calmly, trying to get his attention from his spot by the panel.

Lestrade continued to pace, his steps growing more and more erratic. Sherlock had been around the man long enough to realize the tell-tale signs of a meltdown. First, it started with frantically running his hands through his short hair, check. Then, it moved to uncontrollable pacing, followed by tuning out the environment around him and talking to himself, check, check, and check.

"Lestrade," Sherlock tried again, trying to intercept him before he paced a hole through the floor. "If they didn't hear the alarm, surely they heard you beating on the doors. We're probably just stuck between floors."

"This is ridiculous," Lestrade muttered, easily maneuvering around Sherlock to continue his pacing. "Bleeding lift," he continued, building himself up to a full-blown rant. "This whole place is just falling apart, can't even keep the lifts form falling apart..." he complained, trailing off at the end to where Sherlock couldn't hear him anymore.

Sherlock observed the man and his frantic pacing. He appeared to have broken out into a sweat, and the wide, nervous eyes did nothing to dampen his terrified look. Lestrade was having a full-blown panic attack in the elevator- _oh_!

"Are you claustrophobic?" Sherlock asked Lestrade excitedly. This was certainly a new and fascinating fact to learn about him. His smile fell though when he saw the distress in the man's face and eyes. "Lestrade," he tried again with no success. "Hey, _Greg_ ," he reached out and grabbed the Sergeant by his shoulders to stop him.

Sherlock tried to get him to relax but was having no success, so he did the only thing he could think of and grabbed Lestrade into a tight hug. Lestrade struggled briefly before giving in and sagging his full weight against Sherlock. Sherlock faltered slightly, trying to keep the larger man from falling to the ground, but grasped his guardian tighter.

"It's okay," Sherlock muttered. "Deep breath in, hold it, and let it out. Good," he praised, rubbing nondescript patterns on the man's back with his free hand. "Let's sit down," he suggested, and slowly eased them both to the floor to sit against the back wall of the lift. "Deep breath in. Hold it. Deep breath out," he continued with his mantra that he had learned from Julie, his therapist at rehab. Lestrade sagged further against him, and Sherlock looked to the lift doors hopefully.

He put his casted arm around Lestrade's shoulders, reversing the position they were in earlier. He hoped that he was being calming presence for the man after everything Lestrade had done for him.

"I hate the water," Sherlock started suddenly, eager to fill the silence in the small lift. "Always have been. Even when I was younger I hated baths, never enjoyed swimming pools, or going to the beach," he told the man who continued to remain silent. "Not that my family was ever the type to go on holiday to the beach," Sherlock thought with a frown, "You've met Mycroft, after all," and then shook that disturbing picture out of his head. "Anyway, one day, when I was five, Mycroft and I had been let loose into the wild of the exotic English countryside where we grew up," Sherlock smiled when he thought he heard the smallest chuckle from Lestrade. "We had a large creek that ran through the property that we went to explore. I slipped and fell in," he paused, still remembering the panic his five-year-old self felt at the feeling of being swept out; having everything suddenly become out of his control. "Thankfully, I got hung up on a branch and Mycroft was able to pull me out the rest of the way. Still, I can't stand to be around bodies of water. Driving over the Thames makes my heart-rate spike. I know it's foolish, but it doesn't change the way I react."

Lestrade let out a small sigh and tried to right himself up. Sherlock pulled back his arm from Lestrade's shoulders, but leaned into the man's shoulder, earning him a shoulder bump from the other man.

"I'm sorry, kid," Lestrade groaned, letting his head fall into his palms. "You shouldn't have had to see that."

"Well, you shouldn't have had to see me high, or going through withdrawals, but here we are," Sherlock looked over at the man who was still hiding his face from him. "But that's what family is for," he said quietly, but the comment had its intended effect when Lestrade finally looked up at him. "Or at least that's what I've heard," he finished with a shrug.

Lestrade leaned on Sherlock's shoulders, "Yeah, kid, it is," he agreed with a smile.

A loud grinding noise came from the front of the lift and they watched from the floor as the lift doors were being pried open.

"Thank god," Lestrade muttered, patting Sherlock's knee before standing up.

"Everything okay?" a voice called out from the open door, and Sherlock could see a couple of perplexed maintenance workers trying to figure out what had happened with the lift.

"Yeah, just ready to get out," Greg told the maintenance worker, helping Sherlock up off the floor this time. "My kid and I are ready to get out of here," he turned to look at Sherlock with a smile.

Sherlock ducked his head to hide the smile blossoming across his face.

* * *

"No, please, stay where you are. I don't need any help," Greg grunted, dropping one of the last boxes of his belongings in his and Sherlock's new flat.

Sherlock raised his cast-covered arm into the air while he stayed firmly planted on the couch, flipping through a magazine.

"Yeah, enjoy that excuse while you can," Greg mumbled, glaring at the back of the kid's buzzed head. "Your bedroom set gets delivered here in another hour, you could at least help push some of this stuff around to make space back to your room," his frown deepened when Sherlock didn't move from his spot. "What are you reading about that's more interesting than moving, anyway?"

The kid had found an old stack of National Geographic magazines that he had in his old flat while they were packing and apparently decided that _now_ was the appropriate time to start reading through them. This particular issue was dedicated to the rainforest and the page he was on had various aquatic life of the area featured.

"Didn't get fish out of your system in reception school, did you?" Greg joked.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock mumbled, still keeping his eyes glued to the magazine.

"Oh, you know, letting your class' pet fish go free?" he replied with a smirk down at the kid.

Sherlock threw down the magazine and spun to glare at him, "How did you-" he started, but Greg cut him off.

"Let's see, should I go chronologically, or by the size of damage to school property?" he continued on, turning to head for the last box he brought in where a certain, rather large, bound folder had been residing. "Let's just start with the highlights, yeah?" he asked, but Sherlock just stared, gaping at him. "So we've been over the fish. Then there was your second year of primary school when there was the show and tell incident with your chemistry set-"

"It is not my fault that the classroom was not properly ventilated!" Sherlock argued, raising his voice and violently pointing at Greg.

"Sherlock, mate, your teacher lost consciousness and the rest of the glass had to leave because of headaches."

"How do you even know about those?" Sherlock asked before realization dawned on the kid's face. "Mycroft," he muttered, narrowing his eyes on Greg.

"So after that, there is a quiet year or two then a few minor things that aren't even worth mentioning-"

"Blasted, Mycroft, sticking his fat nose into situations that he shouldn't be a part of," Sherlock closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his cast-free hand. Greg had to tamp down the smile that the kid had picked up one of his own mannerisms.

"Now, when you went off to boarding school, that's when you really seemed to kick it up a notch," Greg carried on, continuing to ignore Sherlock. "You start small by removing all of the strings from the students' orchestra instruments in the middle of the night, then there was taking the headmaster's car apart and reassembling it in his office-"

"This has Mycroft written all over it," Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms defensively across his chest.

"Things continue to escalate until you go out with a literal bang... by blowing up the bleeding chemistry lab!" Greg didn't know whether to laugh or be furious. "In fact, a lot of your little transgressions have ended in a fire of some kind," he commented, rereading through some of the write-ups.

"Mycroft had no right-"

"He had every right! Sherlock, you're lucky Stamford is mates with the local school's headmaster and he's agreed to at least entertain the idea of letting you finish school there. I can't tell you how many times I got laughed at over the last couple of weeks while trying to find a place that will take you, given your more _colorful history_ ," he glared at Sherlock while holding the kid's file up in the air.

Sherlock continued his sulk before surprising Greg by launching over the back of the couch to make a grab for the folder. The kid was fast, but Greg was faster. The Sergeant was able to use his slight height difference to continue to hold the folder just out of Sherlock's reach.

"That folder belongs to me!" Sherlock pointed to his chest, still trying to grab for the folder.

Greg playfully pushed at the kid's chest, keeping him just out of arm's reach, "Sorry, mate, it belongs to you _guardian_ ," he teased, sticking his tongue out at the kid, making the kid's frown deepen even more. "I think I'll keep it for some late-night reading when I need a laugh."

Sherlock glared at him. In an impressive leap, he grabbed the folder from Greg's hand and sprinted to the other side of the new flat.

"Oi!" Greg laughed, taking off after the nimble kid.

The two playfully tussled for control of Sherlock's school records throughout the flat, with Sherlock attempting to kick boxes between the two of them. Greg had the upper-hand though, being that he wasn't actively holding a very large, bound together folder, and one of his arms wasn't currently in a cast. Sherlock had gotten himself cornered in the other end of the sitting room. He made another jump over some moving boxes and was able to slip past his guardian, making a break for the hallway. Greg sprinted off after him, catching up with him at the lifts.

"Gotcha!" he yelled victoriously when he grabbed Sherlock around the waist. "Give it back you twerp," he grunted struggling to get the upper-hand over the lanky teen. Eventually, the kid tripped over his own two feet, taking them both down to the floor. Greg effectively put him in a head-lock and trapped his feet with a leg of his own, a wrestling skill he had used on his own siblings a time or two. "It's over, Sherlock," Greg told him in mock-seriousness. "Say mercy."

"Never," Sherlock grunted in reply, continuing his futile efforts in breaking free from the larger man.

The lift picked that time to ding, signaling someone was getting off on their floor, but Greg and Sherlock were too involved in their ongoing battle for control of the folder to notice until a new voice spoke up, startling the both of them.

"Charming," Mycroft muttered, frowning at the sight of them tangled on the floor.

"Oh, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, glaring at the sight of Mycroft towering over them. Greg tried to use the opportunity of Sherlock being distracted to grab the folder from the kid, but Sherlock caught on and continued his struggle against him.

Mycroft stepped in and plucked the offending record from Sherlock's grasp, "I'm so glad the two of you were able to be adults about his," he commented, placing the folder under his arm. "And to answer your question, Sherlock, I thought I would come to toast your new home," he held up a bottle of wine that was in his other hand. "Clearly, I didn't get the memo that childish displays were a mandate to enter," he finished with a final pointed look between the two of them.

"He started it!" Sherlock deflected, pointing back at Greg.

"Oi! You were the one that catapulted yourself over the sofa!" Greg volleyed back, tightening his hold on Sherlock's neck as he did so.

Apparently, Mycroft couldn't find it in him to respond to their 'childish displays' with anything other than an eye roll. He then turned to head off towards the open door of their new flat.

Greg untangled himself from Sherlock and the two stayed sitting on the floor, both staring at the open door that Mycroft had just entered through.

Greg turned to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, "I guess this means that by signing you on, I get that one too," he asked, hooking a thumb in the direction of their flat.

Sherlock's face fell at the realization, "I suppose so," he huffed. "Although chances are we can con him into something fancier than pizza for dinner tonight," Sherlock finished with a shrug.

"Fair enough," Greg agreed and got himself up off the floor before helping Sherlock up, as well.

The two stood side by side for a moment, both staring at the open door to their new home. Greg threw an arm over Sherlock's shoulders and smiled when Sherlock leaned into him. The kid would be a mess, he'd fall down again, and then he'd overcome those things and go on to be and go on to be something great. Something _good_.

Greg looked to Sherlock with a smile, "Ready to go home, kid?" he asked with a squeeze to Sherlock's shoulders.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Guys, it's bittersweet to announce that the end of this story is here. But fear not, I'm working on a new story, Part 2 if you will, that is focusing on Sherlock, Lestrade, and John. I hope you guys stay tuned for the next saga in the Like Father, Like Son series. Also, don't be surprised if you get updates on this story later on, as I plan on updating and sprucing up previous chapters to bring them up to how this story ended once my Beta came onboard.
> 
> Hucklebarry, this story would not have made it without you. For that, I am eternally grateful. Thanks for all of your help and advice these past few months. I've truly enjoyed working with you on this project and will continue to look forward to your words of wisdom with the next installment.
> 
> So, the end for now. I hope that y'all enjoy it. Please, read and review.

**Epilogue**

Sherlock stifled a groan as the minutes slowly drug on, making him feel trapped in the tiny office of despair. He failed to stop a small sigh from escaping his lips when the man across from him flipped another page ever so slowly. Lestrade nudged him with his foot, probably in an attempt to contain Sherlock from starting his new adventure off on the wrong foot.

"So that pretty much covers everything," the headmaster nodded, reading through a stack of papers in front of him. Sherlock sighed again when the man readjusted his glasses for the twentieth time in the last hour. "We were able to gather the rest of your previous records from your various schools in the past," there was a brief pause when the man looked over his glasses skeptically at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow in defense back at him. "Your classes have already been assigned. You're not getting too much of a late start for the Fall term. Based on the previous classes you've taken, hopefully, you'll fit in seamlessly."

Sherlock looked over at his guardian, who was in the chair to his right, and found that Lestrade was nodding along to what the headmaster was saying eagerly, causing Sherlock's eyes to roll (which then earned him a sharp nudge in his ribs from Lestrade's elbow when the Headmaster looked away.)

The headmaster seemed to be oblivious to the silent battle between Sherlock and his guardian and continued on, "I've assigned another student to you that is in most of your classes. I'll just go make sure he's here," he told them looking back up with a smile. "Back in a tick," he raised a finger before getting up to leave the small office in search of Sherlock's tour guide, leaving them alone in the room momentarily.

Sherlock looked back over to the man to his right, letting out a groan once the door was closed.

"I haven't even started yet and I'm already bored," he bemoaned, letting his arms fall off of the armrests of the chair and throwing his head back dramatically.

"Now, you listen here," Lestrade turned and started in on him fiercely, causing Sherlock's eyebrows to raise in surprise. "You're lucky this place didn't turn you away, given your more _colorful_ track record with schools. I don't want to get one phone call, you hear me?" he paused to point vigorously at him. "Don't deduce and humiliate your teachers," he ticked off a finger, " _or_ your classmates in public." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before finishing off with, " _Please_ , for the love of God, don't make the chem lab explode -"

"That was just the one time," Sherlock cut in defensively, earning him another glare.

"Let's just say that explosions of any kind are off the table," Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. "You can do this, Sherlock," Lestrade's face relaxed slightly. "It's only one more year, then you'll be off to college and university."

Sherlock stared down at his still casted arm in contemplation. A lot had happened in the last six months. The man next to him had given him a chance, a home, a new wardrobe, but maybe most importantly, Lestrade made him feel safe. As he looked back at the man with a smirk that made Lestrade narrow his gaze on him even more, Sherlock realized he'd be okay. The least he could do for his new guardian was not burn down the school, or at least attempt not to.

"Alright lads, I think we're all set," the Headmaster cut in, reappearing in the doorway. "Sherlock, I've got your tour guide all ready to go."

Sherlock turned and saw the borderline pleading look in Lestrade's eyes and let out a sigh.

"Fine," he grumbled and both of them got up from their chairs in the headmaster's office and headed to the main lobby of the school's office.

There was another student waiting, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He was several inches shorter than Sherlock, with blonde hair. The other student gave a small wave from across the office as they made their way towards him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as they approached, trying to decipher as much information about the other teen as quickly as possible. The muscle definition first made Sherlock inclined to believe that he played football but when he reached out to shake Sherlock's hand the callouses indicated those of a rugby player which made Sherlock change his opinion at the last minute.

"John Watson," the other boy greeted with an easy smile.

Another nudge to his ribs from his guardian prodded Sherlock into action.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, returning the firm handshake.

A surprisingly firm handshake for someone close to his age. It indicated a type of confidence that was uncommon for most adolescents. His shoulders were relaxed, but the other boy, John, let his hands fall to rest behind his back. Possibly due to being raised by a family member in the military, Sherlock thought.

"John will show you around the rest of the morning," the Headmaster started, breaking Sherlock from his deductions. "Here is a copy of your schedule for the rest of the semester. You'll be expected to report to your afternoon classes after lunch. If there is an issue with any classes, try and get with your year's counselor by the end of the week."

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade shook the headmaster's hand, thanking the man for all of his help. Sherlock stared at Lestrade until their gazes locked back. Lestrade gave Sherlock a comforting smile before turning back to John.

"So, John, nice to meet you, don't let this one push you around too much," he greeted with a point of his thumb towards Sherlock.

John gave the two of them a curious look, but Sherlock decided to cut in before he could finish whatever thought he was about to express.

"Football or Rugby?" Sherlock inquired, keeping his face straight when the other boy looked confused by the question.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispered defeatedly under his breath.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, still clearly trying to figure out what Sherlock was getting at.

"Your physique suggests more of a footballer," Sherlock began, ignoring the sigh from Lestrade next to him. "However, it's your new calluses that have just recently healed on your hands that indicate that you have switched sports. Possibly due to an injury, more likely due to potential scholarship opportunities. Either way, the calluses must have interfered with your clarinet playing."

John and Lestrade started in on him at the same time.

"How could you possibly-"

"Sherlock, what did we _just_ talk about?" Lestrade asked, covering his face in embarrassment.

"That was amazing," John responded after a moment, staring at Sherlock in awe.

"Really?" Sherlock and Lestrade both turned to stare with equal looks of surprise, responding in sync.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and frowned at the surprise in the man's voice.

"What?" Lestrade asked Sherlock with a shrug. "It's not like that's one of your more personable party tricks," he muttered.

John looked between the two staring down at each other before awkwardly speaking up, "I'll, uh, just be out here when you're ready," John said, pointing towards the door before stepping into the hall and out of earshot.

Sherlock watched as his guide for the day awkwardly exited the school office and then turned back to Lestrade, unsure how to proceed.

Lestrade watched the other boy exit, turning back to Sherlock with raised eyebrows, "So, this is it then," he stated nervously. "You've got everything you need? Do you need pens or anything? I've probably got one somewhere," Lestrade began to pat down his suit jacket in search of a pen.

"I'll be fin," Sherlock replied evenly. He watched on as Lestrade began to panic over his pen search.

"Can't believe I don't have a pen," Lestrade continued with a frown, ignoring Sherlock in his search.

Sherlock let the man continue to look for several more seconds before cutting in, "Makes you a bit of a crap detective," Sherlock teased him.

"Oi!" Lestrade replied, looking hurt at the statement. However, it had its intended effect, snapping him out of his pen obsession.

Sherlock pouted, "You act as if I've never done this before," he grumbled crossing his arms.

"Pardon me for not having faith in your prior ways of coping, seeing as your previous extracurricular activities put you in rehab," came Lestrade's sarcastic response.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't you have to go to work or something?" he grumbled. "I'm sure a tardy mark on your first day as a homicide Detective Inspector will be looked on poorly by your superiors."

"Right," Lestrade nodded, looking to give Sherlock a smile. "You'll be fine," he stated, and Sherlock wasn't sure which one of them he was reassuring. "We'll do that Thai place you like for dinner," he offered. "You know, to celebrate."

Sherlock nodded his agreement, "Assuming I make it through the day without you receiving a phone call?"

"Frankly, I'll just be happy if you survive the tour," Lestrade replied with a challenging smirk.

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head at his guardian's sense of humor.

"Okay well, I'll let you get to it," Lestrade looked around unsurely. "I kind of feel like this is a hug moment," he let out a large grin at Sherlock's obvious signs of discomfort.

"I assure you it's not," Sherlock threatened with a dangerous raise of his eyebrow.

"Humor me," Lestrade spoke softly, taking a step closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed but didn't run away when Lestrade came to wrap his arms around him. Sherlock returned the gesture and let his eyes fall closed for the briefest moments before letting go. A sense of calm came over him, and the comfort the other man instilled in him only cemented the fact Sherlock had made the right choice. He could do this.

"One more thing, Sherlock," Greg said with hands on his shoulders, looking pleadingly at Sherlock. "Be nice. John looks like a nice kid," he finished, jabbing his chin in the other teen's direction.

"I'll see you tonight," Sherlock said pointedly, not ready to let his guardian know that he had won, and walked out in the hall towards John. "Go solve something, Inspector," he called back behind him. The faint _arse_ heard from under Lestrade's breath brought a smile to his face that stayed until he reached his tour guide.

John had obviously been watching their interactions through the office window but tried to discreetly change his gaze to something else when he saw Sherlock make his way towards him.

John smiled as Sherlock made his approach, "Your dad seems like a nice guy. He worries about you," John nodded towards Sherlock's cast.

"Mmmm," was all Sherlock could say, not sure how to go about attempting to explain his relationship with Lestrade to someone he'd only just met.

"So, I was thinking of the tour first. Make sure you get a good feel for the school," John carried on with an easy-going smile. "We actually have a lot of the same classes together. The only difference is that I have orchestra at the end of the day, although you probably gathered that since you somehow knew that I played the clarinet," John said with a frown, pausing to look back to Sherlock. "How did you know I played the clarinet?"

Sherlock smirked, not bothering to look at the other boy, "I observed the facts and came to the appropriate conclusion," he finished with an air of someone more elitist than he was actually feeling. Actually, it felt like he was channeling a bit of Mycroft, and that thought alone was enough to bring a frown to his face.

"Right," John replied slowly, still continuing their trek down the hallway. "Well, between the haircut and your know-it-all attitude, you're kind of coming off as a dick," he finished keeping his head pointed forward, but Sherlock could see the joking smile on his new classmate's face.

"So I suppose that means I should keep my comments to myself regarding your backpack that was clearly handed down to you by your older brother," Sherlock pointed to the worn backpack on John's back.

John paused in the hallway to stare at Sherlock in disbelief.

"What?" Sherlock asked, pausing his steps to look back at the other boy.

"That was brilliant," the other teen remarked, causing a smile to form on Sherlock's face. "How could you possibly know that?" John asked him, but the excitement in his voice and the small smile threatening to spill onto his face gave him away.

Sherlock smirked back at John and turned to carry on down the hall without his guide. It took a couple of moments before the sound of the shorter student's footsteps caught back up with him.

"You're right," John started with a smile. "I got this backpack from Harry," he told him with a nod. Sherlock stood a little taller at the affirmation of his correct answer. "Harry is short for Harriet," John finished with a raise of his eyebrows.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the hallway and let his head hang, "Sister!" he fumed, snapping his head back up. "It's always something," he grumbled, trying to ignore the growing smile on John's face.

In the end, Sherlock couldn't help but smile back at the other student. John didn't seem displeased or overly disturbed by Sherlock's ability to read him. It was... nice.

"So, Sherlock Holmes," John started, returning Sherlock's smile with an even brighter one. "Where to next?"

"What does the school's chemistry lab look like?" he asked John curiously.

John nodded and nudged his head towards a different hallway before turning to head that way himself. Sherlock smiled at the back of the blonde head leading him towards the lab.

Maybe this whole school thing wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

.

.

.

_20 Years Later_

Two years of maddening work came to an end. He hadn't rested until his son's name was cleared. Too little, too late. Still, Sherlock deserved the redemption, even if it was posthumous. He withdrew another cigarette and took a long drag, standing on the steps of NSY and resisting the urge to flip the building off. He supposed he was lucky they allowed him to continue to work, despite being demoted back to Sergeant and only with supervision. Even though Donovan and Anderson convinced the lot of them his son... It didn't matter now. Sherlock was cleared.

He'd done what he'd set out to do. Maybe he'd finally turn in his resignation, it'd serve them all right.

 _"Don't be stupid,"_ Sherlock's voice rang clear in his mind and he took another deep drag of his cig. He finished it with another long drag and lit up another one.

Maybe he'd text John and they could have a beer soon to commemorate the occasion. Though he hadn't seen much of the young doctor as of late, on Sherlock's birthday and the anniversary of his death, John made sure to come around and make sure he was okay. They'd have a drink and a cry and go about their ways. They tried to keep in touch earlier on, but it had been too difficult for the both of them.

Mycroft was always keeping an eye on him, though. The two hadn't had much interaction since the night of Sherlock's, well, since Sherlock _left_. But every time he saw a sleek black town car, or heard the whir of one of the CCTV cameras change their direction, he knew that the older Holmes brother was still keeping tabs on him. Greg glanced at a nearby security camera and gave a small salute. Mycroft had promised that Sherlock's trust fund would continue to pay for the Baker Street flat until Greg was ready to say goodbye to it. He also assured Greg that there was more than enough to take care of Greg for as much time he felt he needed to take off after Sherlock...

But that wasn't Greg. He needed to get back to work; needed to prove all those tossers wrong. And after two years of soul-crushing work, he wasn't sure what to do with himself exactly. Maybe he'd take Mycroft on that offer after all and do some traveling. Maybe he'd relocate altogether just to get away from this blasted city and all the memories associated with it. Surely his qualifications would get him another job doing police work somewhere.

Greg put out his last cigarette after chain-smoking his way all the way back to his flat. His phone chimed with dozens of texts, one right after the other. The press conference must be over then. The world finally knew the truth. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through a few of the texts,

_Sally Donovan: Greg, I'm so sorry I hope you know -  
Sandra Littleton: Come round for dinner soon._   
_Phillip Anderson: There's a new theory -_

Greg rolled his eyes. The elevator dinged on his floor at the same time a new text came through.

_Mycroft Holmes: Vatican Cameos_

Greg paused with keys in hand. Memories came flooding back of times past. Mycroft had expressed concerns, via Anthea, about the press conference today. He knew there would be some blowback, but that could be dealt with another day. Tonight would be for him. He just wanted to sit with a glass of scotch, turn off his phone, and do nothing but remember happier times.

He unlocked the door to his flat, tossing his keys on the entry table and hanging his jacket up, ready to head to the kitchen to make himself a stiff drink. He paused, something feeling off, and glanced into the living room. A lone shadow stretched across the room, startling Greg. He wasn't alone.

 _Vatican Cameos_ , Mycroft's text came back to him. He reached to his holster and withdrew his gun before slowly taking himself toward the living room. The person had their back to him. He was tall, with long shoulder-length curly hair, ratted clothes, and seemed to be taking in the chaos of his living room.

"I'm sorry," the stranger spoke quietly. Their voice was deep and raspy as if it had not gotten much use, or was overcome with emotion. Possibly both. There was something about the timbre of that voice that made Greg lower his gun. He knew that voice - but it couldn't be.

It _couldn't_ be. His mind was playing tricks on him. The emotions from the day, from the last two years, were finally catching up with him.

"I'm _so sorry._ I did it to save you," the mystery ragged man refused to turn around, instead continuing to look at the various papers that had littered his walls and string attaching various clues to each other.

Greg's living room, over the last couple of years, had turned into a situation room of sorts. It looked mad. Not that he had many visitors aside from John or Mke, and they understood. Neither tried to talk him out of taking even a single piece of paper down. Greg had to admit that he had gone a little mad over the last couple of years, but losing your son will do that to a man.

That voice though, he knew that voice in his bones. It'd been two years since he'd been able to hear that deep baritone voice explain a murder, joke with John, or call him dad. That was the voice of his son.

"Sherlock?" he asked, holding back his tears. His own voice sounded treacherous to his ears as he holstered his gun. Greg needed to see the man's face. He needed to know.

Hesitantly, he extended a shaking arm, reaching for the arm of the other man to turn him around. He thought he had fooled himself. This was just some vagrant that somehow managed to get into his apartment. And then, through that mess of hair, and overgrown beard, he saw those eyes. Those eyes that haunted his mind.

"Oh my god!" Greg gasped. "Sherlock!" he cried and crushed the man to him.

"He was going to kill you. I couldn't lose you, Dad. You and John and Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock's voice was thick with emotion, and somehow the monotonous rhythm that the kid used displayed the shock that Sherlock was probably feeling himself.

"You daft, bleeding _idiot_!" Greg cried and lost the ability to keep himself upright, crumpling both of them to the floor.

"He was going to kill you," Sherlock's dazed voice repeated.

Greg squeezed Sherlock tighter to him, crying harder when he felt Sherlock's arms wrap back around his shoulders. He could feel Sherlock's own tears fall to his head as the two sat and cried. Together, they cried tears of joy, sadness, anger.

"You smell atrocious," Greg finally spoke, wiping tears from his face and grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders to take him in. "You're really here?"

Sherlock nodded and his hair fell to obstruct his face again.

"Christ, Sherlock. What have you done to yourself?" Greg asked, finally registering everything in front of him. The kid's ragged clothes were falling off of him. "Did you eat at all while you were out traipsing across god knows where?" You feel like you've lost at least a stone," Greg commented, rubbing the kid's upper arms. He noted that Sherlock also seemed to be holding the middle of his abdomen as if he was in pain. He needed to get the kid checked out.

Sherlock shrugged, refusing to look back at Greg. What untold hell had the kid put himself through?

Greg let out a sigh and stood up to pace the living room while his son remained on his knees. He clearly needed medical attention, but the Sergeant wasn't sure how to check one's deceased son into A&E. Christ, this meant he'd have to call Mycroft and John, he thought, covering his face with his hands and taking a deep calming breath. One thing at a time.

"Come on, kid. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" Greg asked, helping his son to his feet. He was there to help Sherlock correct the slight wobble that threatened to bring him back to the floor. He led him into the bathroom and turned the shower on. "I'm burning those clothes when you're done," he tried to joke, pointing to the tattered clothes hanging off of Sherlock's already slim frame.

Sherlock nodded, still refusing to look Greg in the eye, and closed the door to take a shower.

Greg felt the tears gathering, and he had to lean back against the closed bathroom door for support to keep himself from collapsing to the floor. This was real. Sherlock was back. Clearly, he had been through something, and he'd get the story from the kid at some point, but not tonight. Tonight was for Greg.

The bathroom door opened, startling Greg from his thoughts. Sherlock caught Greg from falling back, seeing as the door was holding most of Lestrade's weight at the moment.

Greg looked at him concerned, "Hey, kid, is everything okay?" He looked into the bathroom, concerned that maybe he had run out of clean towels, but Sherlock's arms enveloping him in a comforting hug pulled him back to the present.

"I felt as if this was a hug moment," Sherlock whispered, bending down to rest his forehead on top of his dad's shoulder.

Greg felt a chuckle escape him and returned the display of affection with equal force. This was real. Sherlock wasn't dead, his prayers had been answered.

Sherlock was _home_.

 _His son was home_.


End file.
